Reason To Believe
by WitchGirl
Summary: One decision can change the course of history. Demetrius James is in prison for the brutal attempted murder of Greg Sanders. Three months later, his victim claws his way out of a coma and struggles to remember how to survive. Meanwhile, in between being there for Greg, his friends track a serial killer who constructs tiny crime scenes. Business as usual in Las Vegas, 2007. (AU)
1. Rebirth

Reason To Believe

 **Summary:** What if Greg's attack had yielded tragically different results?

 **Setting:** Season Seven, 2006-2007.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own CSI.

 **Author's Note:** This fic has been on my computer for about six years now, and I keep coming back to it. A sizable amount has been written, but I never finished it, so I never posted it. I've caught the CSI fic bug again lately and am going through a lot of old things. I'm hoping that posting the chapters I have will motivate me to finish. I avoid unfinished stories as much as possible, and I love this concept too much to ignore it. So, go back in time with me, if you will, to ten years ago. I hope you enjoy the ride.

* * *

" _No man is a failure who has friends._ " – Clarence, who finally earned his wings.

Chapter One: Rebirth

One day, it was as if someone had hit the "on" switch. And though it began suddenly, it didn't happen all at once. The factory lights buzzed on and there loomed the old corroded thing, damaged but not destroyed, and neglect had left it a little worse for wear. Then, achingly slowly, the rusting cogs creaked to life and began to run again. The pulleys and levers gradually regained their momentum and the old machine was active, despite missing a few parts. It began chugging away, pumping pistons, making sounds, performing tasks, and… opening his eyes.

It started with open eyes.

At first, that's all the old brain could do, was open his eyes. They couldn't even really see anything, at first. There were white lights, indistinguishable at first, and a part of him somewhere long lost wondered if this was what being born felt like. He couldn't make out details, just shadows and shapes. But then, the shapes drifted away again and night fell for a little while.

He blinked many times, and every time he raised his eyelids again, the world had somehow changed. At first, they were heavy, and the lights would shift with the world, but soon it became easier to open his lids again, and he didn't need to blink as often. Sometimes he would watch the shadows before closing his eyes again.

One time, he opened his eyes, and the blurs around him were accompanied by sounds, but it was as if he heard them under water. They were damp and heavy. After what seemed like hours, the sounds began to string together and become clearer.

"Can you hear me?"

He knew those sounds. They were words. Words had meaning, didn't they?

"But he doesn't respond… Note the way his eyes are moving. What could this mean?"

He wasn't sure what it meant, and he didn't know why he was being asked.

"He's dreaming."

"Good guess. The movements resemble what we might see in a patient in the middle of REM sleep. So if he isn't dreaming, what does it mean?"

There was a honking sound, animalistic and loud. It took him a moment to realize that it had come from his own mouth.

There was shuffling around him. And then, the question again, this time much more sincere. "Can you hear me? Mr. Sanders, can you _hear_ me?" There was anticipation in her voice, hungry for a response.

He made the sound again, and tried to shake his head. He blinked, hoping his vision would become clearer. But his eyes made his head ache. He felt overwhelmingly tired.

"Suzie, can you ask Dr. Wallace to take the interns, please?"

White flooded his vision and he cried out, jerking away from it.

"Pupils are responsive. Suzie, bring me his file. Jesus, his eyes weren't moving randomly, he was _tracking our movement_. Mr. Sanders, if you can hear me, blink your eyes."

He tried. He wasn't sure he succeeded. He was so tired. The darkness claimed his vision and it stayed for a while. The sounds were suddenly gone. When his eyes opened again, he could see colors. He groaned.

Someone else moved in the room. He could hear it. "Greg?"

He didn't know the voice. He saw a shape. Blue and brown and beige. He tried to focus his eyes, but his head hurt.

He became suddenly aware of a dry warmth in his hand, and slight pressure. It felt strange.

"Greg, are you awake?"

"How's he doing?"

"He's awake, doctor! Look! He's looking at me!"

"Good… OK, Greg, let's try this again. If you can hear me, I need you to say so. Can you hear me?"

He thought he said yes.

"Hm… Greg, can you say your name for me?"

He assumed that his name was Greg. He tried to say it.

"What does that mean?" said the other voice.

"This is a process, Ms. Sidle. People don't just emerge from a coma miraculously cured. But at least he's responsive. It's a good sign, I promise. You're holding his hand?"

"Is that a problem?"

"No, it's perfect. Greg, would you try and squeeze your right hand for me?"

He did. There was a gasp.

"I felt it. Oh God, he squeezed _back_."

He slipped away again. The shapes were fuzzy, and there was an echo in his head.

But when his eyes opened once more, it was like breaking the surface of the ocean. He gulped down air. He'd forgotten how to breathe. His vision was slightly more distinct, but things were still blurry, like looking through saran wrap. He blinked several times, much more rapidly than he had before, and nothing changed when he opened his eyes. It was all the same, one world, one timeline. His lungs were burning and his head was filled with cotton.

"Greg…" A soft, but sturdy voice. Tentative. Unsure of himself.

Greg could relate. He closed his eyes because the light was invasive. He prayed he wouldn't slip away again.

"Greggo?" The voice seemed scared, but Greg saw no reason for it. He opened his eyes and turned towards it, squinting as he examined the face. A man in his thirties with trimmed brown hair and deep eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but the wrong sounds came out. He was lost. What was happening? What was wrong with him? Why wouldn't his body obey him and who was this person standing beside him?

There was a weak smile. The man rubbed Greg's shoulder. "It's OK, Greggo. The doc said that this could happen… Do you understand me?"

Slowly and painfully, Greg managed to shake his head no.

The man laughed, but there was still something missing from it. "I know, stupid question, huh?" His smile gained strength. "But you know what I said, and that's what I meant."

A door opened, catching Greg's attention. "Ah, we're awake again, I see," said a woman with black hair in a white coat. She held a clipboard and approached the bed with determination. "My name is Dr. Amador. Do you know what I'm saying to you?"

"Yeah, he, uh, he does, I checked," said the man by his bed, a little too eagerly.

She smiled kindly at him, but it seemed rehearsed, as though she had done it many times before. "Let him answer for himself, please, Mr. Stokes." She turned back to Greg. "Now… If you understand me could you nod?"

Again, Greg shook his head.

She chuckled as if he were making some sort of joke. "Being obstinate are we? Well, that's all the proof I need." She made a note on her clipboard. "Could you make a fist with your right hand?"

He looked down at his fist and squeezed. His fingers curled and brushed against his palm. The lines on his hand felt strange and dry on his fingertips, like sand. His hand blossomed outward again and he slowly turned it over so his palm faced the ceiling. He was fascinated by how small it looked.

"Fantastic," said the doctor. "Now could you clench your left hand?"

At first, nothing happened. The left side of his body felt numb. He concentrated on it, trying as hard as he could to do as she asked.

He managed a twitch in his fingers.

"Hm…" Dr. Amador remarked, making another note on her clipboard. "Can you wiggle your toes on your right foot for me?"

The sheets on the bed moved. Moving his leg a little to the side, the appendage seemed lazy, a heavy stone shaking off cobwebs, dust and moss that had grown on it over decades.

"And your left?"

The sheets were still. Dr. Amador looked at her clipboard again.

"What's that mean?" asked the anxious man by his bed.

She looked up and smiled at both of them. "There's no need to be alarmed. Greg, you managed a twitch, and believe it or not, that's a good thing. This could only be temporary. Now, about your aphasia…" She pursed her lips and flipped a page on the clipboard. "When asked your name before, you couldn't pronounce it. Do you know what your name is?"

Greg nodded.

"Could you say your name for me, please?"

He hesitated and glanced at the man by his bed. The doctor followed his gaze.

"Mr. Stokes, I would appreciate it if you waited outside," she said.

"I want to know what's wrong with him," Mr. Stokes said, stubbornly.

"And I will tell you when I'm done with the tests. But I think he's embarrassed to have you here, listening to him."  
Mr. Stokes looked as though he had never considered this. His face fell. "Oh… yeah, right, OK." He looked at Greg. "I'll be right out in the hall, OK, Greg?"

Greg nodded. He felt a strange connection to the man. He wondered if they were brothers.

* * *

Nick Stokes sat in the waiting room, his forearms on his knees, hands clasped and head bent. Three months. That's how long they had waited for any sign concerning Greg's condition, but the best the doctors could offer them was "wait and see." There had been scans and x-rays and prognoses… But inevitably, no one could know what was going on inside Greg's brain.

Nick closed his eyes. He'd imagined what this day would be like. One day, Greg would open his eyes, and be absolutely fine. He would laugh and beg them to sneak him out of the hospital when the doctors insisted on keeping him for observation. Within days, he'd be back to work, falling back into his daily routine.

But of course, this was just a fantasy, one that was encouraged by Hollywood and fairytales. Nick knew that brain injuries were tricky things. And even coma _survivors_ don't escape completely unscathed. If he woke up at all, there was bound to be problems. Deep down, as a rational, educated forensic investigator, Nick had known all of this to be true. But it hadn't stopped him from dreaming.

Today was supposed to be a happy day. A day of relieved sighs and falling blood pressures. But Nick didn't feel it yet. He still feared the worst. Greg had looked at him with unfocussed eyes. They were lost. And it terrified him.

"Nick?"

He looked up and saw Grissom standing six feet away from him. He was looking at him in the way an owl might, stiffly and with raised eyebrows, seeing more than what was in front of him.

Nick nodded. "Doctor's in with him now, running some tests on his language issues."

Grissom nodded, but his expression didn't change. "But otherwise?"

"He was… more awake than ever. It wasn't like before, where he kind of knew what was going on. He looked at me. He moved his head when I spoke. He responded to the doctor's commands. That's a good thing?"

Grissom cocked his head to the side. "Why do you say that like a question?"

Nick raked a hand through his short hair. "I don't know, Grissom… After the attack, the doctors said that… maybe it was a _good_ thing he was comatose, because he wouldn't feel his injuries. They've mostly healed now, but I still feel like… there are wounds he hasn't felt yet and I don't want him to feel them."

Grissom nodded and sat wordlessly next to Nick in the chair. He said nothing for a moment, just staring straight ahead.

"I haven't told the others about your phone call yet," he said, suddenly.

Nick blinked. "Why not?"

"Because they'd want to come," Grissom explained. "Immediately."

"So?"

"So… I don't think that's a good idea. It would be overwhelming for Greg. One or two of us here at a time, that's been working, I see no reason to change that pattern today. And besides, they have work to do. Murders to solve."

Nick looked down, flashing back momentarily to the night of Greg's attack, and the subsequent investigations. "If we'd worked harder and faster that night, maybe we could have caught them before Greg—"

"No," Grissom interrupted.

Nick looked at him. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

He said nothing at first, but then, "I mean that we are human. Not only is it illogical to blame ourselves, but it's also pointless. What does it change?"

He spoke as if he'd said it before.

"Yeah…" Nick agreed after a moment. "I guess it doesn't change what happened."

Dr. Amador rounded the corner and Nick leapt to his feet. Grissom, recognizing the action, looked to the doctor.

"He has a form of Broca's aphasia," she explained. "Which could last for the rest of his life, or it could dissipate in a matter of weeks or even days. His brain has been asleep for three months. It's adjusting to being awake again."

"Broca's aphasia, what does that mean?" Nick asked.

"Words," Dr. Amador explained. "He literally can't find the words. Mostly nouns, but verbs as well sometimes. I showed him pictures of everyday objects. He knew what they were. But when he'd try to name it, some other word or nonsense sound would come out. He's having trouble with his consonants as well, but I think that will pass. Just while I was in there, he was trying harder to annunciate."

Nick fell back in his chair. "So… we can't talk to him."

"No, you _can_ talk to him," Dr. Amador clarified. "It's a problem with expression, not comprehension. He seemed to understand me fine enough. The problem is, he can't talk to _you_. He will try to reply, but his words won't make sense to you."

"What other problems does he have?" asked Grissom.

"His left side is weak… Half paralyzed. But the subtle movements indicate that the neural pathways are still intact. It could be they're bruised or scarred. I think he should regain at least some movement there."

"Some?" Nick muttered, nervously.

"Well, a full-recovery is unlikely," Dr. Amador explained. "There will be some residual problems that will crop up in the future, but we'll cross those bridges when we come to them. Would you like to see him?"

Grissom and Nick looked at each other.

* * *

When they stepped inside, Greg's head was turned toward the window. Three months in a bed had taken its toll on his body. He seemed much smaller than he used to, and his skin was sallow, hanging off of bones and scattered with scars. He turned when he heard the door click shut and stared at them blankly.

"Hey, Greggo," Nick said, trying to smile.

He squinted. "Don't do binoculars…"

Nick stopped, frozen by the nonsensical words. But Grissom seemed unfazed as he continued to approach the bed.

"It's good to see you, Greg," he said quietly.

Greg looked at him and blinked. "Buh… Binoculars. Can't find binoculars." He closed his eyes tightly and seemed to internally berate himself. "No… not right…" he explained. "No ocean." He gestured to his eyes.

Grissom leaned forward. "You can't see?"

Greg nodded. "Exactly, thanks!" He held his hand in front of his eyes. "Here window," he explained, then stretched his hand out at arm's length. "Here, nuh, no ocean."

"He's nearsighted," Grissom concluded with a small smile.

Nick tried to fathom how Grissom deciphered that. "The gestures?" he guessed.

"The words," Grissom explained. "He can't think of the word he needs, but he remembers the associations. Binoculars are used to see things far away. An ocean is like a sea, which is a homonym for—"

"Sight," Nick realized, comprehension dawning.

"You're welcome," said Greg.

"I'll go tell the doctor…" said Nick, finding it hard to breathe in Greg's room. He was glad for the excuse.

Grissom sat down in a chair by Greg's bed. "To be honest, it's easier than talking to you when you were a DNA tech. You said all sorts of things I couldn't understand. At least this has some sort of logic to it."

Greg gave him a confused smile. He pointed at Grissom. "Fa… Family?"

Grissom was taken aback by the word, and the plethora of associations that went with it. He wasn't sure what Greg meant, but a part of him was warmed by it. "No…" he said slowly, and Greg looked disappointed. "I mean… You know who I am, don't you, Greg?"

Greg looked distressed. He shook his head and tears bloomed in his eyes. He brought his right hand up to cover his face as he fell back down on the pillow.

It bothered Grissom as well. "I know you're frustrated… Do you know who _you_ are?"

He stopped moving and brought his hand down from his face. He paused, then nodded.

"Do you remember your mother?"

His eyes widened, and he nodded vigorously. "Sanifornia…" he began, then shook his head. "Califran…" He pounded the bed with his closed fist.

"California," Grissom provided.

Greg nodded. "Here?" Greg asked, pointing towards the ground.

Grissom shook his head. "No, Greg. You're in Las Vegas. You live here. Remember?"

"Live…" He frowned. "Lost Vegas?"

Grissom chuckled. "Lost Vegas sounds about right, doesn't it?"

Greg paused. "M-mom?"

Grissom smiled. Greg knew that word so well, it was impossible to lose it. "She was here at first. But she had to get back to work. I called her, she's on her way."

"Mouth sounds…" Greg said sadly. "Not… easy."

"I know," said Grissom. "But I like the fact that you're not afraid to try anyway."

Greg smiled at him with half-lidded eyes. He leaned back on his bed and closed them completely. Grissom stayed until he saw Greg's chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. He rose to his feet and held the rail on the edge of his bed.

He stayed there all night.

* * *

 **NOTE:** A handful of liberties have been taken with the symptoms of aphasia. It's actually a mix of a few different aphasias, but I took some poetic license for the sake of the story. As a former linguistics student, I do know that this does not have the exact same symptoms, and at times seems like Werneke's and then Broca's, and if you, too, are familiar with the disorder, then I apologize for misrepresenting it. If you are unfamiliar with the disorder – be aware that fiction is not always accurate.


	2. Reeducation

_**Author's Note:**_ Since I haven't posted in the fandom for several years, I doubt any readers these days will be familiar with my posting schedule. I only post a story if I intend on posting the whole thing, I have a regular schedule for posting chapters. Expect a new one for this story every Wednesday until it's finished. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Two: Reeducation

Greg wove in between wakefulness and sleep quite often over the next few days. Eventually, he established a relatively normal sleep schedule, and for weeks he worked with speech therapists, physiotherapists, and psychiatrists to help him recover the basic things he had forgotten how to do.

When his mother had arrived, she looked as if she'd barely recognized him. At first, like most of the others, she couldn't understand his peculiar speech patterns. But unlike most of them, she wasn't scared away by this. She was often in his room whenever visiting hours allowed her to be there, stroking his left side, invoking some odd superstition that a mother's touch could cure anything.

Though he didn't remember Grissom, his old boss was the only one that seemed able to understand the ideas that he was trying to convey. Because of this, Grissom was his best conversation partner and, after the speech therapists, was probably the biggest help to overcoming his aphasia. Grissom encouraged him to talk, even if it didn't make sense, which helped Greg work a part of his brain of which he'd become afraid.

But the aphasia seemed to be fading relatively fast, which was a relief to Greg. He felt disconnected enough without communication barriers. After a few weeks of struggling through conversations, there were only brief moments where he would forget words. Still, his speech was strangely slurred now, no matter how much he focused on annunciating. He had a strange, deep lisp that wound around his vocal cords like a serpent and pinned his lips and tongue. Regardless, everyone pretended not to notice, and as if to prove their indifference to it, encouraged him to speak all the time.

He found himself in this new world, surrounded by friends. If his mother wasn't there, then Grissom would be. And if Grissom wasn't there, it was one of any number of people. He relearned all their names. Nick, Sara, Catherine, Warrick, Jim, Sofia, Wendy, Archie, Henry, and any number of others. All of these people helped fill in the gaps about what had happened to him and why he was there.

They told him he was a scientist, a crime scene investigator. This didn't surprise him. He vaguely remembered the job, as if from another life. They also told him that while driving to a crime scene, he had witnessed another crime in progress: A gang beating up an older man. He'd tried to scare them away with his lights, but soon enough, the gang was beating him.

But he'd saved that man's life.

His medical bills were covered, and according to his friends, they were sparing no expense. Apparently, the man he saved was an investor, touring Las Vegas and looking for his next big buy. Whatever Greg's insurance wouldn't cover, the investor picked up the bill.

"Best care possible," Catherine told him with a smile. "He expects you to make a full recovery."

It was six weeks after Greg had awoken from his coma, and he was still stuck in the coma ward. He looked over at his roommate, but her curtain was drawn so he couldn't see her that well.

He But Greg shook his head. "That never happens," he said. "These things… They – the doctors, they say I'm lucky to have what I got."

She pulled a chair up by his bed. "Doesn't mean we can't dream, does it?"

"Yeah, it does," Greg insisted. "Dreams are not…" He tried to finish his thought, but couldn't, so he rephrased it. "Dreams are false hope."

Catherine rested her chin on her fists, her elbows on her knees. "You used to be a big dreamer."

"So I'm told," said Greg. "I used to be a lot of things I'm not now."

"Look, you can already talk again, right?" Catherine returned. "That's progress. I heard you're gaining weight. And Sara said when she came yesterday, you were standing without the help of your therapist!"

"Big achievement, huh? Standing on my own feet." Greg looked away from her.

"Don't be like that," Catherine pleaded.

"Then don't talk to me like I'm a toddler taking my first steps," Greg snapped. She withdrew, and he saw the wounds his words had inflicted. He sighed. "OK… Catherine, I'm sorry. Everyone telling— Everyone keeps telling me that the-the-the things will get better, and if you all expect that I'm, uh, that I'm going to be exactly the same as I was, as I used to be, then…" He stopped, but this time it wasn't because he couldn't find the words, it was because he didn't want to say them.

Catherine put a gentle, apologetic hand on his shoulder. "I didn't mean to get you all worked up."

"I stumble when I…" he closed his eyes, "when I talk fast, I shouldn't do that. I walk over words."

She pushed a curl back behind his ear. There was silence a moment that was heavy and awkward for Greg. She looked at him for a long time, then put her hand around his bad forearm. Her thumb and forefinger touched together. She frowned.

"Are you eating?"

"It's my muscles, not fat," Greg muttered, bitterly. "I could eat twelve cheeseburgers and gain fifty pounds, I'd still be weak as…" His brain searched for the appropriate pop culture reference, and came up lacking. "The point is—" he said, interrupting himself angrily, "that it wouldn't make a difference." He raked his good hand through his hair. "I hate this."

"You're dealing so well, Greg," said Catherine.

He detected another hint of condescension in her tone, but he doubted she had intended it. He tried to let it go. It wasn't Catherine's fault that he was this way.

"I don't feel myself…" he said, in barely a whisper. The phrasing sounded wrong to him, but he was fairly sure he'd said it correctly. He had a feeling that it was the notion behind the sentence that was ringing the discordant note in him. "And that funny part is… I don't even know what myself is. I…" He choked. He wanted to say that he missed his mother, but he knew that sounded childish. She wasn't far. Just getting some sleep in her hotel room, probably upon Grissom's insistence. But still, he felt more at home with her than any of these other people who came to stay with him. These people that said they were his friends.

"We're so—"

"Proud of me, yeah, I know," Greg muttered. Every single one of his friends had said that to him at least twice. Catherine said it once every five minutes. The only person who was smart enough to know not to say that to him was Grissom. Even his mother had said it once.

Greg knew that his friends repeated these things because they didn't know what else to say. But that didn't make him feel better. Often, it made him feel worse. If he made these people feel so awkward, then why did they insist on sitting at his bedside, regurgitating phrases so often that they became meaningless? He'd lost words for so long. He recognized their value now. And these people were abusing them.

Greg promised himself that he would only say things that he really meant.

Catherine stood there, fiddling with the sheets compulsively. Greg had a feeling that she knew the chanted mantras were losing their power.

"You don't have to be here all the day," Greg said. "Or night. Or… always. You don't have to be here always."

She tried to smile. "I'm not here often enough."

Greg scoffed. "I mean all of you, all of you just don't have to be here every second. I'm not a child, I don't need my parent or guardian around to make sure the nurses don't molest me." She looked mildly surprised, but he needed to make a point. "You people are here all the while…" That sounded wrong, but he pushed on. "Always _here_ and you don't know what to say and you don't know how to act, and you…" He hesitated, but he thought of his recently made promise. "Sometimes, you… make me feel worse."

Catherine took the news stoically. "OK…"

Sometimes, it's the hurtful words that really need to be said. "I'm sorry, Catherine."

Regardless of anything else his confession had achieved, it definitely brought silence. Catherine smoothed his bed sheets and wouldn't meet his gaze. But she stood there for several minutes. Greg just watched her, wondering if awkward silence was better than platitudes.

She was staring at the foot of his bed when she spoke again. "It's been three months since we lost you, Greg," she whispered.

Greg wanted to tell her that she wasn't giving him any new information, but the tear in her left eye implied that perhaps she was.

"And it just feels like you're still lost."

It was a very simple, perhaps even obvious statement, but it was the first time that anyone had actually said it to him, and he appreciated it.

"I _am_ ," he said. "Catherine, I…" He held his breath a moment, before letting it out. It shuddered, as if he were shivering. "I want… to say so many things."

The silence in the air congealed like blood around an open wound.

* * *

Catherine did not come by to visit him again for a very long time. She must have said something, because everyone other than his mother seemed to be limiting their visits. Whatever the reason they had stopped coming, Greg was glad for it. It gave him more time to focus on recovering, and less time to worry about disappointing friends he didn't remember.

"How does it feel?"

Greg balanced on his two disproportionate legs, right arm outstretched as if he were on some sort of balance beam. "Unnatural," he confessed.

His therapist, Dr. Rosen, chuckled. He was a man who looked far too young to be a doctor, and the spiked hair and chain tattoo on his wrist certainly didn't help him to look more professional. But in spite of all that, Greg was comfortable enough with him for some eerie reason. He almost seemed to remind Greg of someone he knew and trusted.

"Yes, well, this is tremendous progress." Dr. Rosen handed Greg his cane, and Greg took it in hand with a surge of relief. Though he had been standing, it had felt unsteady, and he preferred the security of his cane to help him keep upright. He didn't even want to try walking without it.

"Dr. Amador tells me that you walk the halls when you can't sleep."

Greg nodded. "Is that not good?"

"No, it's awesome," Dr. Rosen insisted. "So long as you feel you have the strength, use them as much as possible. The atrophy doesn't seem to be as extensive as we initially thought. You are making crazy progress, Greg, in all areas, I understand."

"Except one." Greg tapped his temple.

Dr. Rosen nodded sadly. "Well, we never expected a full recovery."

"No, but a few memories would be nice," Greg said. "I don't even need _all_ of them. In fact, I don't _want_ all of them. I just want the ones that remind me who I'm supposed to be. What my job is, who my friends are… what I'm doing in Las Vegas."

Dr. Rosen folded his arms across his chest. He pursed his lips as his head bobbed up and down, thoughtfully. "Do you know much about computers, Greg?"

"Not really," Greg said. "Or… not that I remember."

"When a hard drive is damaged, there is a possibility that the files are corrupted or otherwise irretrievable… But the interesting thing is, all the parts are there. And a really good technician, such as– not bragging– me, can put pieces together from hard drives that have been smashed with sledgehammers, even when other technicians claim that nothing can be done."

Greg blinked. "Are you comparing my brain to a computer?"

"I'm not a neurologist," Dr. Rosen admitted. "But I do know that your hard drive is more or less intact. It's just got some scratches and dents."

"I think it's got a little bit more than a few scratches and dents," Greg mumbled.

"My point is," Dr. Rosen continued, in spite of Greg's attitude, "that you're right. Your brain isn't a computer. And you know why?"

"No."

"Because it's organic. Your brain doesn't stop growing until you're in your mid to late twenties, did you know that? It's constantly rearranging itself, growing new neural pathways, repairing old ones… A smashed hard drive might be able to be fixed by a technician, but your brain? Your brain can sometimes fix itself."

 _I'm a decade past twenty, so what does it matter?_ Greg thought bitterly. "Keyword being sometimes," he decided to point out instead.

Dr. Rosen bit his lip. "I've seen you," he said, "with some of your friends. Like when that girl, Sara, was here a few weeks ago. She got so excited to see you stand without my help. And you gave her the brush off."

"Are you going to lecture me about positivity, Doctor?" Greg cocked an eyebrow.

"No," said Dr. Rosen, "I'm going to lecture you about gratitude. I have seen patients in worse physical shape than you make _much_ less progress, and they were _far_ more appreciative of it than you are." He put his clipboard under his arm. "A lot has happened to you Greg, but believe it or not, you are lucky. I just wish you could see that."

Greg smiled. He could always count on his physiotherapist to tell it like it was. The first day they met after Greg woke up, Dr. Rosen had bluntly commented on how awful Greg had looked, and that nothing would be easy. It was something Greg appreciated about him, more than his other doctors. "OK," he said, shrugging with his good shoulder. "OK, I get your point."

"Good," Dr. Rosen said with a curt nod. "And thanks, for not snidely remarking that you're not in your twenties anymore."

"Hadn't even moved across my mind," Greg lied.

Dr. Rosen's lips twitched as he considered Greg's words. "Still trouble with words, huh?"

Greg blinked. "I said it wrong?"

Dr. Rosen shrugged it off. "No," he said. "Remember, Greg – if you can communicate, get your point across, then it's not possible to say anything wrong. That's what talking is for."

The therapist headed out the door and Greg limped over to his bed, squeezing the head of his cane. He was glad that there were no mirrors in his room, as he was certain he'd have looked lopsided. He slowly sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the patient who lay comatose in the bed across from his. He had the strangest urge to trade places with her. At least when he was unconscious, he wasn't disappointing anyone.

"Moping again?"

Greg glanced up, then looked away again. "I don't get it," he said to the person at the door. "You told me that we weren't friends, so why do you keep coming here?"

"To mock," said the visitor as he slipped into a chair by the door. "And to tell you to suck it up, Sanders."

An amused smile tugged at Greg's lips as he turned fully to face him. "What do you want, Hodges?"

Hodges looked at him as if he were dense. "Um, I just said that."

Greg frowned. He remembered smiling, but forgot what had caused it. "Oh… Yeah."

"Look," Hodges began. "Everyone else may be showering you with praise and treating you like a child, but I don't understand why." He leaned over and took the apple from Greg's forgotten lunch tray. "I just want the free food. Are you walking yet, or is that too hard for the wittle baby?" His teeth bit into the crisp fruit and Greg listened to him chew.

"Walking's hard, for your information," he said. "Have you ever thought about how hard it is? You have to, um, put one foot in front, yeah, then shift all of your weight onto the foot and-and-and _weigh_ it… no, that's not right." Greg tried to think. " _Balance_ it—on it, right, as you bring up the foot in the back to put that in front and it all starts over again."

"Mm," Hodges agreed as he chewed. "That, and half of you is made of spaghetti."

"It's exhausting," Greg growled.

"So's listening to you talk about it." Hodges looked at his watch. "Does five minutes sound like enough time? Grissom told me twenty at least. Would you say I was here the whole time if I get you a pudding cup from the cafeteria?"

"Gr-Grissom sent you?" The stutter betrayed no emotions Greg was feeling, but rather the aphasia he was trying to pretend he'd overcome.

Hodges took another bite of his apple. "Yeah, I'm here to mock and criticize, and also because Grissom made it part of my job description."

"You're kindling," Greg said.

Hodges cocked an eyebrow. "Kidding?"

"That's what I said."

"No, I'm pretty sure you just called me firewood."

" _No_!" Greg screamed, frustrated. "No, I said you were—I mean – is it honest? True, I mean, is what you are saying truth?"

Hodges stopped chewing his apple. He swallowed, then nodded slowly. His voice was quiet when he answered, "Yeah. It's true."

Greg took his tray and threw it against the wall beside Hodges, who leapt to his feet, looking horrified.

"Jesus, they didn't tell me that being _spastic_ was part of your damage!" he yelled.

Greg raked his shaking right hand through his hair. "I wish they'd all just stop caring about me," he said. "I wish they'd just leave me alone."

For once in his life, Hodges was silent. Then, he said. "OK, then, bye."

"Wait," Greg called.

Hodges stopped in the doorway, then turned around, looking irritated. "I was trying to do what you asked."

"I know," Greg said. "That's why I want you to stay."

Hodges chewed on his lip and nodded. "Yup, I'd say that's the brain damage talking, but you were indecisive before the coma. You never knew what you wanted." He put on a high pitched voice, presumably an imitation of Greg. "'I wanna be a CSI! Ah! The outside world is too scary! I wanna be a lab tech! No, I don't, I wanna be a CSI! Get out of _my_ lab, Hodges, even though it's not my lab anymore and I'm just being whiny and possessive! Wendy, what are you doing with that peanut butter?'"

"What?"

"What?" Hodges said quickly.

Greg smiled. He looked down at his strangely thin left arm and lost himself in thought. "Can I ask you something?"

"No."

"What… happened? The night I was attacked?"

Hodges wrinkled his nose, as if there was some foul odor in the room. "Didn't they tell you?"

Greg nodded, slowly. "They said I was in a car, and I saw someone getting beat up by a group of people. They said I radioed it in, then tried to scare them away with my lights. They said it didn't work, and they took me out of my car. But that's all they said."

"Never trust a CSI to tell the whole story," Hodges said sadly, shaking his head. "They like to pretend that they know _everything_ based on the _evidence_ , but you know what, they don't know _everything_. That scene was a mess, they couldn't tell you exactly how it went down." He pulled the chair away from the wall and towards Greg's bed, sitting in it backwards as he straddled the back. "But I make a great story teller. I can probably give you a good dramatic reenactment of how _I_ think it happened, if you want. Mind you, it starts and ends with you crying like a little girl and sucking your thumb."

"You don't know anything else?" Greg asked.

Hodges looked down and Greg knew there was something he wasn't saying. Lucky for Greg, Hodges could never keep a secret for long. When he spoke, all ridicule was gone from his tone. "On your way to a scene, you saw a group of teenagers beating on this one guy. You drove down the alley to scare them off, and they scattered, all except one. You caught a man named Demetrius James in the headlights of your car. He was holding a rock, one he was about to smash over Stanley Tanner's head – that's the guy paying your hospital bills, by the way."

"The one I saved?"

"If you could call getting your ass kicked instead of him _saving_ him," Hodges muttered. "Greg, a monkey could have done what you did. Or maybe a very loyal dog. It was very stupid." He sighed. "But yeah, he thinks you saved him."

"What happened next?"

Hodges continued. "He was holding the rock. You had him in your headlights. From what I understand, he made his way towards you. And you didn't move. Didn't do anything, really. Which, if I may say again, was _stupid_. He threw the rock at your windshield, hitting you in the side of the head. Then, his buddies came back and together they broke your window open and dragged you out kicking and screaming. They say you screamed a lot." He spoke the words seriously, almost sadly, before adding, "Just like a spoiled little girl who didn't get a pony for her birthday."

"And then what?" Greg pressed.

And for the first time, Hodges looked truly reticent to tell him, but he continued. "They turned their aggressive jerk attentions to you, ignoring Stanly Tanner. Pushed you up against a fence while they beat the shit out of you. Demetrius James, he was the worst. He was fond of that rock, you know. Hit your head with it a few more times. Gave you the worst injuries."

"You're not just making this up," Greg observed. "So how do you know all of this?"

"It's in Demetrius James' confession," Hodges explained.

Greg looked away. "You watched that?"

"No, _Dukes of Hazard_ was on," Hodges said. "Wendy gave me the cliff notes."

Greg wasn't sure exactly why or how, but he knew Hodges was lying. He scratched the back of his head. "So, tell me," he began, loudly. "Wendy. Do you two have a—"

"Look at that, it's been twenty minutes," said Hodges, leaping to his feet.

Greg frowned and looked at the clock above the door. "It's been ten."

"Ten, twenty, we'll fudge the details to Grissom," said Hodges. "Don't save any more rich people while I'm gone, kay Sanders?"

And he disappeared, before Greg could reply. After a few seconds of silence, Greg wondered if he had ever really been there at all. The only evidence of his visit was the apple core he'd left on the floor, by the tray. Greg spent the rest of the hour watching the mashed potatoes dribble down his wall.


	3. Reassessment

Chapter Three: Reassessment

Greg knew that the footsteps he heard coming down the hall were destined to stop at his room. He immediately turned over in his bed and feigned unconsciousness. The footsteps slowed, then stopped outside the door, and the knock told Greg that he'd been correct. He kept his eyes closed, hoping that if he didn't move, the visitor would leave.

Instead, the person entered the room and closed the door. Greg listened as the footsteps slapped against the linoleum, towards his bed… and then passed it.

Greg dared to open one eye. He opened the second when he realized that the visitor was not someone he recognized. It was a tall, lanky teenage boy with black hair and brown skin. Greg deduced that he was probably South Asian. He held a bouquet of pink roses, and he was facing Greg's roommate, another coma patient. Greg had never seen anybody come visit her before. He watched as the boy went over to the window and removed the shriveled olive-colored stems of what Greg assumed used to be flowers. He tossed them in the wastebasket nearby and replaced them with the bright pink roses. Then, he rounded the bed again and sat next to the girl, sliding his hand into hers and squeezing.

"Happy birthday, Meredith." His voice was barely above a whisper, almost as if he thought she were just sleeping, or perhaps he was being quiet for Greg's sake. Either way, he lifted the girl's hands to his dark lips and brushed them against her skin. Greg saw his shoulder tense and the boy gasped, hunching forward, clinging to her blankets. It felt wrong, somehow, watching this scene, and Greg closed his eyes tightly, not wanting to see. The boy stayed there a good ten minutes, whispering and crying, before someone else joined them.

"Jonathan?" Greg recognized Dr. Amador's voice.

The boy sniffed. Greg opened an eye again so he could see what was going on. He saw the boy, Jonathan, look up at the doctor, but he said nothing.

Dr. Amador's face was bathed in a pale white sympathetic glow. "I just heard the verdict. I am… _so_ sorry."

Jonathan kicked the chair back and trembled. He couldn't have been more than eighteen, but he looked like an old man. "Sorry…" he echoed, and then his face contorted. He gritted his teeth and curled his lips as his eyebrows collided together. "Sorry? Why should _you_ be sorry? Her _parents_ aren't sorry! Her _father's_ not _sorry_!"

"Jonathan—"

"Save her," he pleaded, another sudden mood swing from furious old man to a desperate child. "Please, Dr. Amador, you have to save her, do _something_."

"It's out of my control, and you know that," the doctor replied. "The judge has given her ruling. You can't appeal that, Jonathan."

"Then make her wake up…" His voice was smaller than a speck of dust, and it quivered along with the rest of him. He clung to Dr. Amador's hands. " _Please_ , Dr. Amador, you have to make her _wake up_!"

"And what do you think we've been doing these past two years?" Dr. Amador asked, her voice stern, but understanding. "Jonathan, medicine doesn't work like that. There are no miracle cures."

"There are no _miracles_ ," Jonathan returned. "Just plagues and disasters and ruin." He turned back to look at the girl on the bed, and slowly shook his head. "I can't let them. I won't let them." But the words were uttered not with resolution, but with a sense of fear and guilt. Greg could tell that somewhere, deep down, Jonathan knew he would have to let it happen.

"It's been scheduled for this Friday," Dr. Amador whispered. "The Donovans have agreed to let you hold her hand."

"I can't…" His voice cracked. "I can't watch her die, Dr. Amador."

She put a kind hand on his shoulder. "Come with me, Jonathan. Why don't we have some cake? In honor of Meredith's birthday…"

She led him out of the room and Greg watched the door close behind them. He sat up in his bed, and his attention wandered over to the girl in the bed beside him. The curtain between them remained half-drawn, and he could see everything but her face. It had always been like this. As Greg was the only conscious patient in the room, there was no reason to draw the curtain fully closed, nor reason to pull it fully open.

Greg swung his legs over the side of his bed and reached for his cane. He limped over to Meredith's bedside and pulled back the curtain. Her chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm, perfectly in sync with the ventilator standing stalwart by her bedside. Tubes seemed to be coming out of every opening. Her lips were a soft, icy blue, and her skin was white, splotched with brown dots that Greg thought might have been freckles, and purple spots which might have been something else. Her pale yellow hair was stringy and sprawled out on her pillow. She almost looked like she was underwater. There were huge purple raccoon-like circles around her eyes. He reached out with his weak, shaky left hand and pushed her hair behind her ear, but the action was futile. He just wanted to touch her, on the off chance that it might make her feel something. It didn't. Greg knew that it didn't.

Greg had heard them say that talking to coma patients might help them recover. Whether this was because they could hear and understand what was being said, or because of constant audio stimulus was another topic. Greg knew that these things were pointless. He was told that his friends had come to see him often, and had always talked to him. He didn't remember a word of any of it. Then again, he didn't remember much of anything these days.

He leaned in close to Meredith's ear and closed his eyes, uttering a simple prayer. "Wake up." He waited, holding his breath, as if now that he had said the magic words, the spell would finally be broken and the princess could return to her prince. But nothing happened. So he tried again. " _Please_ wake up." He tried saying her name. "Meredith." Again, he waited, with bated breath, squeezing his eyes closed, hoping against everything that he knew was logical.

"Meredith?" he whispered again. "Wake up, girl. Jonathan needs you."

She didn't move. He straightened and looked at her, frustration flaring in his eyes like a forest fire. "Meredith!" he said, his voice a normal volume. "Are you stupid? What's wrong with you? Don't you know they're going to _kill_ you? Wake up! Wake the _fuck_ up!"

He was shouting by now, but that didn't work any better than the whispers. He inhaled a trembling breath and felt something streak down the side of his face like a shooting star. He stumbled backwards, sitting on his bed and raising his good hand to his cheek, feeling the trail his tear had left behind. His heart was rattling inside of his chest as he looked at this young girl, this child. He knew she was going to die, and that there was nothing that he or Jonathan or anyone else could do about it.

"She's just a kid…" he muttered. "And I'm…"

His stomach churned. Why was it that he was granted a second chance but she was doomed? Was this a hospital or a prison? And if they were both on death row, why was he worthy of a pardon? What was so special about Greg Sanders that God deemed _his_ life more important than a teenage girl's?

Greg slammed his bed with his right hand, and cursed his left one for being so useless.

"Greg?"

He hadn't realized that his own visitor had arrived. He flinched at his own name, and turned his head to look at Nick Stokes. The second Nick saw Greg's face, he briskly walked to the bed, sitting beside Greg.

"Are you OK?"

Greg opened his mouth to say that he was fine, but before he could, he was shaking his head. He closed his eyes and took a breath, holding it a moment before exhaling. When he opened his eyes again, he was looking at Meredith.

"She's going to die," he said, quietly.

Nick tried to be reassuring. "You don't know that."

"I do, actually," said Greg. "I think they're going to take her off the, uh…" He gestured at the ventilator and feeding tube. "Things. On Friday."

Nick was quiet. He stared at his knees. Greg was confused. Normally, his friends were falling all over themselves, spouting out words and empty clichés to try and make him feel better.

"What is it?" Greg dared to ask. But he was afraid of the answer.

Nick squeezed his own knee. "Three months is a long time, Greg."

A chill ran down his spine. "You… you guys, uh, weren't… I mean, I wasn't… You were… You… Ugh." How was a question framed? He didn't remember it being this difficult. _Were you going to let me die?_ It should have been easy. Was he having trouble because he couldn't decide on the grammar, or because he didn't really want to ask?

But Nick knew exactly what Greg was asking. "No." He straightened and turned his head to look at Greg, shaking it hard. "No, _God_ , no. We never… seriously considered it. We all had hope left for you, honest. But the doctors… They told us that every day decreased your chances. And Grissom… tried to prepare us for a day when we… might _have_ to… seriously… consider it…" He said the words slowly, as if ashamed that the thought had ever even crossed their minds.

"Why…?" Greg breathed. "I mean, I don't understand… Why would _you_ have to consider it at all? What about my mother? Doesn't she have that right? Isn't she on my, uh, you know, the clipboard?"

Nick hesitated, and there was something soft and terrified in his eyes, like a rabbit facing a hunter. "Yes… She's one of them."

"One?"

"There are two listed on your file, Greg."

Greg didn't understand. "But my mother, she's…"

"You haven't seen your mother in three years," Nick said. "Not because she doesn't love you, or because… you guys had a fight, or something, you just… live here. And she doesn't. And with her job, and your job…" Nick sighed. "So… we talked about this. It's kinda… ironic, really. Is that the word?"

"Don't ask me," Greg replied. "Words and I don't have the best of relationships."

Nick managed a withered smile. "Well… about a month, before the attack. You were going over all of your papers. Your insurances, your will, your medical records… and your advance directive."

"Was not aware I had one of those…" Greg muttered.

Nick hesitated again, his mouth open but his eyes reluctant. "You… got all of that last year, I think. After… what happened to me."

This caught Greg's attention. "What happened to you?"

Nick closed his eyes and shook his head. "Nothing. I mean… nothing that matters, right now. The point is, being the logical you that you are, you realized that you needed to prepare for things. When… Brass was shot, a few months ago, it rattled you again, and you pulled them out and looked them over. You had your mom listed as your proxy. So you came into work, and you pulled me aside. You said you didn't want to put that pressure on her. You said… that I knew you better than she did, at this point, and that I was the only person that knew what it was like to be… well…"

"You're my proxy…" Greg whispered, astonished. He frowned. "But… I still don't understand. I mean, don't grab offense, or… anything, but, who are you? To me?"

Despite the preface, it was clear to Greg that his words had stung Nick. The man withdrew, inching away from Greg as his eyes dropped to the floor. "I'm not sure, Greg. I mean, I can't tell you what _you_ thought of _me_." He looked up again, his brown eyes wide and innocent, like a child's. "But were we close? Yes."

A quizzical look overtook Greg's features. Instinct urged him to reach out and place his weak hand on Nick's shoulder, so he did. It took effort to raise it up that high, and it plopped down like a dead fish, but Nick placed his hand on top of it, appreciatively. "I know you wish that I could remember. So do I." Nick just stared at him.

Greg sighed, and took his hand back. He felt self-conscious of how small and ugly it was. He turned away from Nick. "But I'm tired for apologizing of something I have no remote over." He paused. "C-con-control." He smiled, and looked at Nick for approval. He'd finally found the right word. But Nick was not smiling back at him, and Greg remembered his point. "I guess… I'm not the guy that you knew three months ago. I think I'm someone else, someone… new… and confused… I guess you could say I was born yesterday." Was that the idiom? Had he used it correctly? He stopped a second, then barreled on. "And I don't want to be sorry for that. I wish that I could be this person that everyone seemed to love so much, but I don't know how, I don't."

"I could show you," Nick offered.

Greg blinked. He doubted that Nick really could. "How?"

"The doctors say you can go home," Nick began, carefully. "As long as you have someone there. They suggested hiring a nurse. I told them… that you could come home with me— If you want to, I mean," he added, hastily.

Greg opened his mouth to decline, then his eyes happened to fall on Meredith's lifeless form and he shivered. He closed his mouth, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. "I can't live here…" He said, meaning that he couldn't stay in the same room as a dead girl.

Nick smiled, misinterpreting the comment. "No, you really can't."

But Greg looked at his friend again. "I don't sleep. I mean, I do, but not how you sleep. Normal people. No schedule, comes and goes, and when I want to say something most, I can't. And… I can't walk. Exactly. And I can't… Well… Maybe it's easier to just say what I _can_ do…"

Nick's brow was furrowed in confusion. "I know all that, Greg."

"No," said Greg, shaking his head. "I mean, yes, you do. But you haven't had to _live_ with it yet. I have. I just…" He sighed. "I don't want you to see me… the way _I_ see me right now." Greg refused to look up and see the sympathy in Nick's eyes, so he stared at his knees. He was mildly surprised when Nick didn't jump in right away to reassure him. After a moment, curiosity got the better of him, and he glanced at Nick out of the corners of his eyes.

The older man's face had deep creases and his brown eyes looked like dark, round tunnels, but Greg could not see the light at the end of them.

"You don't remember…" Nick began slowly, "but not too long ago, I wasn't in such great shape myself."

"Is this the thing that made me get a…" he made a twirling motion with his finger, trying to remember the word, "thing?" Greg asked.

"Advance directive?" Slowly, Nick nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

Greg looked Nick over and scoffed. "Well, you seem fine now."

"I'm not," Nick returned, and when Greg looked at his stony eyes he was chilled to find that there was something sinister in them, and though he had just met the man, he could tell that it was something very _not_ Nick Stokes. He withdrew, feeling suddenly guilty for scoffing.

"Of course you're not," he whispered in apology. "Jesus, what happened to you?"

"You don't need to hear about it," Nick reemphasized, his smile chasing away the shadows in his eyes. "Past is past, right? Point is, I came out of it, for a time, not doing so great physically. Beyond that, I wasn't _acting_ so great. Jumped at every little thing, getting agitated easily, I almost didn't trust my own friends. Thing is, Greg, you didn't care. You treated me like nothing was different, and like I _wasn't_ crazy. Yeah, I know there are some embarrassing things about recovering from something… like what happened to you. But you didn't make me feel ashamed of it. I don't think you should be ashamed of it either. You should be…"

"Proud of it?" Greg offered, dully.

Nick's brow furrowed. "No, you should be unafraid of it."

Greg sighed, his gaze falling on the half-dead Meredith across the room. He looked sharply away. "OK," he breathed.

"OK?" Nick's eyebrows shot up.

"I mean… maybe," Greg clarified. "Just… give me a day or two, to, you know, think about it or whatever."

Nick rose to his feet, nodding. "That's fair."

Greg said nothing. He just kept watching Meredith's ventilator breathe for her. He thought about Dr. Rosen's words from earlier that week. _"You are lucky. I just wish you could see that."_

As if accepting that Greg would say no more, Nick turned silently towards the door and began to head out. Not for the first time, Greg felt the desperate urge to say something, but he wasn't sure what it was, or how to phrase the feeling he wished to express. He knew it fell somewhere between the borders of gratitude and humility, but it wasn't an apology. He settled on the only words he could think of, but he knew it didn't say enough.

"Thank you."

It was a quiet utterance, and Greg said it without ever tearing his eyes away from Meredith. He heard Nick's footsteps stop for a moment. But the older man said nothing in reply as he left Greg alone.


	4. Relating

**_Author's Note:_** Sorry for the lack of update last week. Life got away from me. But here I am now, and I'll see you next Wednesday! Also, thanks to my two loyal reviewers, especially to Marymel. Good to know folks are keeping the fandom alive. And thanks to my anonymous reviewers, too, always great to hear form you.

* * *

Chapter Four: Relating

"I like the new digs," Dr. Rosen said as he held Greg's left arm. "Try to tense your muscles here. So they finally moved you out of the coma ward. 'Bout damn time, but you know, they were full down here in recovery. Bend your elbow."

Greg obliged. "I like your shirt."

A mischievous grin skittered across Dr. Rosen's face, but his eyes remained on Greg's arm. "Yeah, late night last night. Hawaiian themed party, out all night then breakfast at IHOP and about an hour's nap on my girlfriend's couch before coming in." He tugged on his bright yellow shirt with orange flowers that was draped over a white wife-beater. "You like, huh?" He snorted. "Boss mumbled about it being unprofessional, but I'm the best damn physical therapist in this hospital. I'll wear what I want. But enough about me – you got some nice muscle developing here. What have you been doing in your spare time, lifting weights?"

Greg snorted. "I can barely move the thing, you think I can lift a weight?"

Dr. Rosen pursed his lips and gave Greg a look. "Bend your elbow."

"I just—"

Dr. Rosen nodded his chin at Greg's arm. "You haven't noticed, but I let your arm go thirty seconds ago."

Greg looked to his left and saw that he was holding his own arm straight out in front of him of his own accord. He actually chuckled. "Well, would you see that."

"That's a better attitude than last time, too," Dr. Rosen said. "What's gotten into you?"

Greg pulled his arm back in and rubbed his wrist. "I just… have a new… look. Inlook… Out. Outlook. I guess."

Dr. Rosen nodded in approval. "Well, whatever it is, I like it. Let's take a look at that leg of yours. You been walkin' much?" Greg managed a modest shrug. "So let's get you up and see what you can do."

After getting him up and walking with his cane, Dr. Rosen had Greg walk across the room without it. He stumbled a bit, but Dr. Rosen was right next to him, giving him balance when he needed it. In the end, Dr. Rosen shook his head doubtfully.

"That was weak, man. I think you did a better job last time."

"I don't think I trust your judgment," Greg said, sitting back on his bed. "How much sleep did you get last night?"

"An hour, at least," Dr. Rosen returned. "Nah, you can do better."

"What happened to those parallel bars?" Greg asked. "I liked those bars."

"We used those in the beginning, but generally those are for folks with _both_ legs out. You still got one good stump, and you're relying on it too much. You need to trust your left leg. It'll bear the weight if you let it."

"There's a lot of things I haven't been trusting…" Greg mumbled.

Dr. Rosen nodded, then sat down in a chair by Greg's bed. "Your life's turned upside down, huh?"

"No…" Greg said. "No, it's more like… my life was over. Literally. Shut down, game over, whatever. And then, it rebooted. Like one of your computers. And nothing is familiar, or safe… It's got me on edge. Not trusting things, I guess." He sighed. "Maybe I am a hard drive. My… cows are all missing."

Dr. Rosen frowned. "RAM?"

"What?"

"Never mind. Look, Greg… I really don't know what to say."

Greg laughed. "Well, at least you can admit it." He pulled his bad leg up onto the bed, followed by his good leg.

Dr. Rosen yawned and stretched. "Maybe an hour of sleep isn't enough for me anymore after all." He shrugged off the Hawaiian shirt and lifted his doctor's coat from off the chair. He looked at the coat pensively. "I think I'm getting too old for these things." He held up both the coat and the Hawaiian shirt to Greg. "What do you think? Time for me to get serious? It is almost one o'clock, after all."

Greg looked at Dr. Rosen and had a strange sense of déjà vu. "I like your shirt," he repeated.

Dr. Rosen put the yellow and orange shirt back on, and then put the doctor's coat over it. "I guess we all got to grow up sometime, though."

"Fancy white coat doesn't hide the wacky orange underneath," Greg said.

"As well it shouldn't!" Dr. Rosen declared. "You always gotta let your colors show, Greg."

"I just wish I remembered what my colors were…"

"You'll find them, all right?" Dr. Rosen said. "I just wish you'd stop _whining_ about it. Doctor's orders. See you later, Greg." As he headed out the door, Dr. Rosen ran into a woman coming in. "Oh, excuse me." He spun around and watched as the woman entered, craned his neck and raised his eyebrows at Greg before spinning on his heel and heading off down the hall. Greg sat up to get a better look.

The woman was petite with a heart-shaped face and auburn hair. Her skin was very pale and dotted with freckles across her nose. She was beaming at Greg, her hands clasped tight. "Greg Sanders…" she breathed.

Greg's stomach twisted in regret. "Look, if we were friends before, I don't—"

"Oh, no!" she insisted, shaking her head. "No, we've never met. Right, amnesia, huh?" She closed her eyes and nodded. "I'm sorry, how rude of me. My name's Amelia… Amelia Bishop, I'm a journalist for the Review-Journal."

Greg's guilt evaporated and left indifference behind. He lied down fully on his bed and rolled over, his back to her. "All right then, nice to meet, have a good day," he muttered.

"Oh, Mr. Sanders, please, hear me out!"

"No thanks, not interested," Greg grumbled, without looking.

"Please? I'm… kind of an intern at the paper, and this was the first real story they've let me cover, one that wasn't a fluff piece or something."

Greg looked lazily over his shoulder at her. She did look crestfallen by his disinterest. "I'm not a story."

Her eyes widened with horror. "No, no, of course not, I'm sorry, I meant… you _have_ a story. A story to tell. A great one."

"I'm not a story," Greg repeated, turning around to face her. "And I don't have any to tell, either. I can barely talk, or hold onto a train of conversation."

Amelia chewed on her lip and pulled a chair closer to Greg's bed before sitting in it. "You have no idea, do you? What's happening outside these hospital walls?"

Greg frowned at her. "What are you talking about?"

Amelia was grinning now. "You're a local _hero_. And since you woke up from your coma, you've been back in the headlines."

Greg shook his head. "Why?"

"You saved a man's life and put your life on the line. Not to mention you helped bust a gang of teens who had been terrorizing our tourist industry. Stanley Tanner's all over the news, talking you up." She leaned forward in her chair, her expression growing more serious. "I couldn't get in to see you because it was strictly friends and family in the coma ward, but since they moved you down here… and I lied about being your sister…" She beamed. "Could you help a gal out here?"

Greg sighed. "I don't understand. What do you want me to say?"

"Oh, right!" Amelia pulled out a small notepad. "I have some questions, um…" She cleared her throat and straightened up in her chair. "When you were alone in that alley, the nearest patrol car five minutes away, what was going through your mind?" She blinked at him expectantly.

Greg blinked back. "Are you serious?"

Amelia looked worried. "What, too broad? Uninteresting? Dammit, I knew it, it's just like a 'How does it feel?' question! My mentor _told_ me those are _so_ cliché."

Greg laughed and shook his head. "No, no, no. I mean are you seriously asking me what was going through my mind before I got knocked into a three month coma and woke up not remembering what was going through my mind?"

Amelia was quiet a moment as she pursed her lips. "Oh." She took her pen and struck out the question. She frowned at her list, then crossed out a few more. "Sorry, I guess, I keep forgetting about the whole amnesia thing. It's just so surreal."

"So do you have any questions _not_ about what happened before my brain got mushed?" Greg asked.

Amelia looked awkwardly uncomfortable. "Well… the whole violent beating thing _is_ what everybody's talking about, and nobody knows what you were thinking in that alley, what you were feeling, what you wish you'd have done differently, if you wish you'd have run or—"

"I can tell you what I wish I'd done differently," Greg offered, propping himself up on his good elbow. He raised his eyebrows, his lips straight as he stared at her.

Her lips were slightly parted as she looked back at him with wide, curious brown eyes. Then, she nodded. "Yeah… yeah. That's good. What would you have changed?" She held her pencil poised over her notepad, eagerly.

Greg's eyes glazed over. "A friend of mine told me about what happened. I've gone through what he said over again and over again in my head all the time, trying to see if I could remember it, get an image of it, _something._ Well, I can't. I think the memory is per… forever gone from my brain. But the more I tell the story to myself, the more…" He trailed off, his eyes focused on something beyond the corner of his hospital room.

Amelia waited with bated breath. "The more you realized how brave you must have been? How scared?"

Greg blinked, and his eyes refocused. "How stupid I was," he said, flatly.

Amelia wrote this down, but her brow was knit together in confusion. "I don't understand. Everyone is calling you a hero for what you did. You took down a street gang and saved someone's life."

"Yeah, but at what payment?" Greg asked. "Seriously… was it worth it?"

"It's always worth it, isn't it?" Amelia asked, as if this was something she truly believed and she was hurt that he'd ever question it. "That's what heroism is all about. It's about sacrifice. But it's _always_ worth it. Isn't it?"

Greg smiled sadly at her. "I work with someone, and every time there's a situation and we have to go in under dangerous circumstances, I remember he's always shouting at us… He says that he doesn't want to see any heroes out there."

Amelia wrote this down. "And who says this?"

Greg looked confused. "Oh my god, I have no idea. What'd I just say?"

Amelia read over her notes. "You said a colleague tells you not to be a hero. What colleague? Give me an example of when he said this to you?"

"He always says it," Greg said slowly. "Oh God, who is he?" Faces flashed before his mind's eye as he began to panic. All the people who came to visit him, all the stories they had told him. That wasn't one of them. Where had it come from?

And then, his voice shot through Greg's skull like a thunder clap. "Amelia, that's what was going through my mind," he breathed, his voice barely audible. The voice echoed off the high walls of the alley, the darkness, those eyes like twin white moons in the night. "Those words…"

 _"Don't be a hero, whatever you do."_

Greg could almost see the shadow in the night with the ghostly eyes, caught in his headlights. He jolted, as if awakening from a nightmare.

"Silver. I mean…" He shook his head to clear it. "I mean… Copper? Bur…" He smiled, triumphantly. "Brass," he said at last. "Jim Brass says it. And I… I remembered that." He looked at Amelia, astonished. "I never remember anything. But I remember that. It's all I could think about, and I couldn't move. Amelia, I didn't _want_ to be a hero, I just wanted to go home."

Amelia didn't speak for a very long time and Greg looked at her again and blinked. She was hugging her notepad to her chest and staring at him in awe.

"What?" he asked her.

"You're crying," she said.

Greg blinked a few more times and realized he was doing it to try and clear his blurry vision. He sniffed and wiped his cheek with his left hand.

"You asked me what I would do differently," Greg said, when he had dried his face as best he could.

She nodded.

"Hit the gas," Greg said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"When that guy was coming towards me, with the rock," Greg explained. "I kept thinking about Brass, what he'd say to me, and I iced up. I had… at least a few seconds. I would have hit the gas."

"In reverse?" Amelia asked.

Greg thought about it. "In drive," he said.

"You would have hit him, probably," Amelia said. "Maybe hurt him."

"He's a killer," said Greg. "What do you think should have happened? Who deserves the coma more, do you think, me or him?"

"That's a little harsh…"

"Write it down," Greg said. "I don't see you writing it down."

"I don't think our readers want to hear that."

"It's not your _job_ to write what they want to hear, it's your job to write the _honest_!" Greg shouted.

"Yes, but…"

"But _what_?"

"But I don't think you really mean that," Amelia finished, firmly.

Greg stared at her, then looked away. "Reverse, then," he said.

"I'm sorry?"

"Say I would have hit reverse," Greg said. "But the truth is, I just wish I would have done something, _anything_ , other than watch death come at me like a passive idiot." He sighed. "Do you have what you need?"

She nodded, slowly. "Plenty."

"OK, then. Don't make me look too bad," Greg said.

She smiled. "I don't think that's possible." She rose to her feet and turned slightly toward the door, then paused. She turned back to Greg. "This will sound strange… but can I hug you?"

Greg snorted. "Hug _me_?"

"Well, it's just…" She chewed on her bottom lip. "You look like you need it, that's all. Please?"

Greg actually managed a real smile. "Sure," he said.

And she did. She leaned down and wrapped her arms around him, notes clutched in her hand. And Greg was actually warmed by it, this hug from a woman he barely knew, and in all honesty, kind of annoyed him. She smelled like citrus and sandalwood and the scent knocked on the door of his memory, but for the life of him, he couldn't place it. Whatever it reminded him of, she smelled like home.

* * *

Greg sat in the wheel chair, drumming his fingers on his right hand against the arm of it as he smiled at Nick, who was struggling to close a suitcase.

"Need any help with that?" he asked the Texan, his smile turning into a smirk.

"You stay right there," Nick ordered. "I got this."

Greg chuckled. "Of course you do. Well, be faster, I want to get the hell out of here."

"Glad to hear it," Nick said, finally pulling the zipper closed on the suitcase. "I'm also glad you came to your senses and are letting me take you home."

Greg shrugged. "I'm sick of this place, and you're the only one who offered."

Nick's smile faltered. "I was the only one who dared to. Greg…" He seemed at a loss for how to say what he felt he needed to say.

"What is it?" Greg asked.

"You've been pushing us away," Nick finally said. "That's all. They're afraid to talk to you. They all have different reasons. From the beginning, Sara's made it a point to wait for you to come to her. She's afraid that if she crowds you, it'll just make it worse."

"Sara sounds like a smart person," Greg said.

Nick rolled his eyes. "You don't know the half of it. Catherine won't come because you asked her not to, and she says she's trying to respect that. Grissom says he can't because he's too busy, and Warrick flat out told me that he doesn't feel you two were great friends even before what happened."

"But somehow, you're different?" Greg asked.

"I'm stubborn, that's all," said Nick.

Greg sighed. "I know I've been… kind of nasty lately. I'm sorry. I know that all those people you just talked about are my friends, but I feel like we've just met. I feel like I've only just met _you_ , Nick, and frankly, I don't even know why I decided to move in with you. Except that I know that I can't stay here. I can't, and I… I need somewhere to go. And I need to start trusting people again, so… so I guess I'm starting with you."

Nick nodded, his face somber. "That trust is well-placed, Greg," he assured his friend. "I promise."

Greg smiled at him. "Oh, stop. It's not like I'm asking you to be my maid of honor or something." Still, Greg did appreciate the sincerity in every syllable. Maybe he was right to trust this man.

There was a knock at the door and both Nick and Greg looked up. An older man with sharp eyes was holding up a newspaper.

"What the hell is this?" he asked.

"Hello to you too, Brass," Nick said.

But Brass only had eyes for Greg. "You talked to a reporter?"

Now Nick looked at Greg, but his expression was curious. Greg's eyes darted from one to the other. "Well, uh… yeah. Was I not supposed to?"

"What'd you say?" Nick asked.

"Read it yourself," Brass suggested, handing the newspaper to Nick, who looked it over. The detective then focused his attention fully back on Greg. "I thought you didn't remember anything about your life before the assault."

"I… I don't," Greg said.

"Then why the hell is my name in that article, in a quote from you?" Brass asked.

Greg frowned. "I don't know what…"

And then, Nick started reading aloud, apparently having found the quote in question. "'Silver… copper… bur… Brass. Jim Brass,' he finally recalls, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Captain Brass is a detective with the Las Vegas PD, known for his close ties to the CSI night shift staff, having once supervised them seven years ago. Greg says that the Captain always says that he doesn't want to see any heroes on his team. 'It's all I could think about, and I couldn't move,' he says. 'I didn't _want_ to be a hero, I just wanted to go home.'"

Greg slapped his right hand over his eyes and groaned. "Aw, man…"

Nick lowered the paper, his eyes quizzical. "What is this, Greg?"

"I don't know…" Greg moaned. "She got me thinking about things, and then I just started talking and it fell out. I didn't even realize I'd remembered that until I was speaking it all. And she made me sound like such a... don't even..." He sighed. "Don't worry, that's the last time I talk to any reporter."

"So you actually did say that?" Brass asked. "You actually told her that's what you were thinking?"

"Um, yeah, I guess?" Greg confessed. "I remember the reporter, and I remember remembering. Less what I said, though. Sorry, didn't mean to… p-piss you off."

Brass's jaw dropped. "I'm not pissed off, Greg," he said, his tone indicating the opposite.

"You sure?"

"I'm… confused," Brass explained. "Why didn't you say something earlier about this? That you remembered me?"

"But I don't," Greg said. "I don't remember you. I only remember what you used to say to me. To us… whoever 'us' is, I don't know, all right, I, uh, just… when I was talking to her, and she was, uh, asking those questions, something clicked, and there was a… fragment, or shard or something, and I was there, and I saw him, and I remembered. Just that moment. That's all."

Brass's face fell and it broke Greg's heart to disappoint him. "Right, I get it," he said, nodding. "Makes sense, actually."

"Wait…" Nick said, as if there were something more. "You're saying that talking to this reporter about what happened helped bring back some of your memory?"

"Yeah," Greg said. "But, I mean, I think it was just a… You know, accident? I don't know. It was partly because someone told me how it happened. It helped to try and visualize it in my head the way he told it, and then… Yeah."

"Who told you what happened?" Nick asked, looking at Brass accusingly, but the detective was shaking his head, silently telling Nick that it wasn't him.

"H-Hodges," Greg said, then frowned, suddenly uncertain. "Right?"

Brass snorted. "Of course he did. You sure he told you the truth?"

"More truth than I was told before then…" He tried to think. "Sometimes, when I dream… I see flashes. Bits of it. But then, I wake up and it's gone again. I only remember… remembering."

Nick and Brass grew quiet. Brass looked briefly at Nick, then his eyes rested on Greg.

Seeming to sense the tension in the room, Nick picked up Greg's suitcase. "I'll take this downstairs, and come back for you, OK?"

Greg nodded and watched as Nick left, leaving the old detective and the young amnesiac alone in the recovery room. Even so, Brass still didn't speak. This was fine with Greg, who was worried he would offer more platitudes. He wasn't wrong.

"I wanted to say that I'm sorry, Greg."

'Sorry' was a word Greg heard rather often these days. Everyone was sorry for him, for what happened to him, for how they made him feel. But mostly, it was a word he'd found himself repeating often, and it was beginning to lose its meaning.

"Yeah, I know," Greg said meekly, staring at his knees.

But Brass was shaking his head. "You don't," he said.

Greg looked up, but the detective was looking off to the side now.

"Nick will take good care of you," Brass assured him. "You might not remember him, but I know you can sense that. He always has your back. If he'd been with you that night, you…" He trailed off, took a deep breath and sighed, turning back to Greg. "What am I saying, huh? See you soon, Greg."

"Bye…" Greg said, a little confused.

Though he had turned to leave, he stopped in the doorway. "The first thing you remember is something that I said to you," he said. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at Greg. "I had no idea my words had that much effect on you, Sanders, considering I always thought you weren't listening."

Greg smiled. "Maybe you underestimated me."

"I know I did," Brass said, and then, he was gone.


	5. Relocation

**_Author's Note:_** I know, I know, no update in a long while. That's because I was doing some heavy revision with this chapter. I've written far ahead, so I should get back to my weekly schedule next week. But I do try and finish what I start, eventually. Thanks to my loyal readers - I hope you haven't abandoned this story yet.

* * *

Chapter Five: Relocation

Greg clutched the porcelain sink in Nick's bathroom and stared in the mirror as he opened his eyes as wide as he possibly could. He eventually dropped his jaw and did the same, trying to look deep into his throat. It was the first serious time he'd had with a mirror since he'd woken up two months ago, and he wasn't enjoying it.

He remembered that when he was a teenager, he hadn't been too fond of looking in the mirror, either. He used them to make sure he looked passable but, being an awkward adolescent, he had never hoped for more than that. Though his mother assured him that he eventually "grew into his body," and became "a very handsome young man," Greg was struggling to see it now, and struggling to remember a time when he _had_ seen it.

Everything after college felt like a blur. He remembered the number of his first dorm room, but he couldn't remember where he'd met the man whose house he was living in. He knew that they all expected him to remember, eventually and the acidic guilt of that responsibility was eating him alive.

Greg stuck his tongue out and made a face. The left half was still being sluggish, but it still responded, even if it wasn't as solidly as his right side did. He took a step back, still holding onto the sink with his good hand for balance, and took in his bare torso. Apart from being scrawny, it was also riddled with slashes, spots and holes, all of which had long since healed over, but the scar tissue and suture marks remained. Greg ran his left fingers over some of the old wounds. He lingered on one he noticed by his temple, and moved his mass of curls away to get a clearer look, absent-mindedly noting that no one had thought to trim his hair while he was in a coma. He brushed his fingers gently against the scar, which crept right up to his hairline by his forehead. He stared at it in the mirror, something like a cat stirring deep inside him from a long nap, but it was far too deep to know what it was or where it came from or exactly what it was trying to tell him. So he just continued to stare and try and remember, on the verge of it, almost there, and then…

He sighed as he lost it, like a dream he forgot faster the longer he stayed away. There was no point at trying too hard, not now, anyway, not when it might have been something as insignificant as the color of the boot that had come down on his head, or something as traumatic as how he'd felt right before it had descended.

Greg sighed. He took a long time struggling with a t-shirt. He'd had to sit on the toilet and maneuver his head into the neck hole before using his right arm to help his left into the arm. Finally, he creaked up to his feet, holding onto the wall. Nick had metal handles, which helped. Greg wasn't sure if they were new or not, and didn't want to ask.

He hobbled back outside to the living room, where the TV was on the news. Greg had a seat on the couch and kicked his good leg up onto the coffee table before helping his bad leg join it.

"The body of high school basketball star, Ryan Lansco was found today in the studio storage facility of his photography teacher, Diane Kentner. Police say that both the student's and the teacher's bodies were lying on a bed together." Greg smiled as he saw shots of Nick and Brass at the studio. "Diane Kentner seems to have committed suicide over the accidental death of her underage lover at the hands of cheerleader Megan Cooper, whom Kentner struck with her car in retaliation."

Greg stiffened when he saw a familiar picture come up on the screen. He squinted and almost smiled as he recognized himself. He was healthy and smiling and wearing a CSI vest. He supposed he had to give his mother some credit. He had looked pretty good, before the attack. But the urge to smile disappeared as the reporter spoke. "In other news, local hero Greg Sanders was released from the hospital yesterday, after giving a particularly moving testimony of his situation to the Review-Journal. Despite our attempts to contact him for a statement, he has yet to respond. Next, what you don't know about your pets might hurt you. Stay tuned."

As if just to spite them, Greg switched off the television, considering what he'd just seen. Attempts to contact him? The only time anyone had shown an interest in writing or talking about him was Amelia Bishop, and she was a rookie reporter. Greg wondered what number the media was dialing, and who was answering the phone to tell them 'No, thank you.' He smiled, because whoever it was, he was deeply grateful to them. Talking to one newspaper reporter had been painful enough, but having someone put him on TV? The visual medium would allow people to gawk and pity the lopsided freak with a lisp that had at one time been a handsome hero. That was the last thing Greg wanted.

Just as he was deciding what to do, the front door opened and closed and Nick came in carrying a load of groceries.

"You were on the news," Greg said, conversationally.

Nick rolled his eyes. "I'm always on the news."

"Well, aren't we just a bit conceited," Greg said as he watched Nick enter the kitchen and drop off the groceries. He craned his neck over the back of the couch to see inside the door. "I was on the news, too."

"That's also not uncommon," came Nick's reply as he put away the food. "You want tuna casserole or grilled chicken?"

Greg thought about it a moment. "What do you think I want?"

Nick came into the doorway and gave Greg a look. "Don't ask me that. What do you want?"

"I'm serious," Greg said. "If this were six months ago, what do you think I would want?"

Nick sighed, then leaned against the doorframe. "You'd say you wanted takeout."

"Wasn't one of the options."

"No, but you'd say that my chicken is rubbery and I'll burn the casserole."

Greg smiled. "You knew me pretty well, didn't you?"

Slowly, Nick nodded. "I did, yeah."

There it was again, that guilt creeping up and latching onto Greg's stomach. He looked away, suddenly. "Casserole, then. I'll make sure you don't burn it."

"I could call takeout, if you want," Nick offered, almost apologetically, as if sensing the change in Greg.

"No, why would you do that?" Greg asked. "You just bought groceries." He stared at the black and empty TV screen. Nick came and had a seat on the couch.

"So you were on the news, huh?" Nick tried to sound casual and conversational. It almost worked. "What did they say about you today?"

"Just reporting that I'd left the building," Greg said. "Hospital, anyway. They update my every move?"

"More or less," Nick replied. "Look, you were out of the news for three months when you were in that coma, and when you woke up, you weren't just a hero, you were a miracle survivor. That stuff, I guess, they think is newsworthy."

"Do you think so?" Greg asked.

Nick opened his mouth and paused, as if not sure of what to say. He closed it and licked his lips. "I think that there are some things in a person's life that should remain private."

"That reminds me," Greg said, gesturing at the TV. "They said they'd tried to contact me. Nobody's tried to contact me."

At this, Nick smirked. "And how would they?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where's your cell phone, Greg?"

Greg blinked. "I have a cell phone?"

"Who the hell in this day and age _doesn't_ have a cell phone?" Nick asked. "Grissom has it."

"Damn, I need to catch up," Greg muttered, shaking his head. "Do you have a cell phone?"

Nick fished into his pocket and pulled it out, then handed it to Greg. The younger man looked at it like it was alien technology. "What in the hell…? If this is a phone, how do you call someone?"

"That's funny," Nick said. "I asked you that same question when I first got it."

Greg handed the phone back to Nick. "OK, so everybody has cell phones these days. What else does everybody have?"

"I don't know," Nick said. "I mean, it's hard to say, on the spot like this…"

Greg nodded, then sighed. "It's so weird… you know? I feel like, like I know things, or used to know things, only to find out that I don't. Do you know what I thought when you first said cell phone?" Nick shook his head no. "I thought of those much bigger models, with the green and black screen, like a cordless phone."

"Yeah, we had those," Nick said. "Ten years ago."

"Ten years…" Greg breathed. "Gone. Just like that. Whoosh!" Again, he strained his brain, trying to hang onto the last thing he remembered, only he couldn't. It felt like so long ago, he couldn't name a specific memory, only a situation, a place, people that he knew, things he used to do. And now, here he was, ten years later, in a completely different place with a completely different job.

Greg frowned. "When can I go back to work?"

Nick seemed surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"

Greg looked at him as if he were thick. "Exactly what I said. When can I go back to work?"

Nick was shaking his head. "Greg, you're not fully—"

"Cured?" Greg asked. "Healed? Perfect? Fine, maybe not, but how do you know I ever will be? Maybe this is the best you've got, and I've gotta make a living somehow, don't I?"

Nick was chewing his lip. "Greg, you've been gone a long time…"

It took Greg a moment, but he soon realized what Nick was trying to say. "I don't have a job anymore, do I?"

"No!" Nick exclaimed. "No, we… We did hire someone else, yes, but it was always only temporary. Until you got back on your feet."

"Which ones?" Greg asked. "The one gimpy foot and a cane, or two good fantasy feet?"

"Whatever you like, Greg…" Nick held his breath a moment. "I just don't think you're ready for that kind of stress, man, OK? Especially with your memory being the Swiss cheese that it is… Do you even _remember_ how to do your job?"

It was a fair question, but it still stung. At that moment, Greg tried to remember anything from his life as a CSI and failed. "All right…" he conceded. "Can I at least… go in to work with you someday? I won't get in the way, promise, I just… want to look around. Maybe help with a case, if I can, somehow, by some miracle…" He winced as he looked at Nick for approval. "That sound good?"

He was wrong to fear. The Texan was beaming. "That sounds great," he said.

* * *

Greg was shouldering on his vest as he exited the locker room with his kit. He rolled his shoulders and strode quickly down the hall, knowing that Sofia was waiting for him at her scene, and he didn't want to keep her waiting too long. Greg had this strange but wonderful feeling that it was going to be a good night. It had already started out well, and he was sure that it would end the same way. After all, he'd read somewhere that attitude was the largest influence on whether or not a day turned out good or bad. It was the Power of Positive Thinking and all that stuff, and it appealed to the side of his personality that indulged in a little New Age parapsychology.

He passed Nick in the hall. The Texan was also wearing his vest and carrying a case. He raised his eyebrows curiously at Greg.

"You going to court dressed like that?" he asked as he passed by Greg.

"Been there and back again," Greg replied, making a swooshing gesture with his hands to indicate that it had been a slam dunk. He turned and walked backwards as Nick stopped to watch. "I'm on my way to a scene."

"Solo?"

"Just a pick-up," Greg said. "Sofia's got a sweater for me."

"How sweet of her," Nick said, teasingly.

Greg rolled his eyes. "Gonna be late, gotta go." He kept walking backwards. "Lunch later?"

"You bet," Nick replied without even looking as he headed in the opposite direction.

* * *

"You bet."

As Greg lied on the bed in Nick's guest room and blinked at the ceiling, those were the only words that echoed in his head. " _You bet._ " He had that feeling that he was quickly getting used to, like he had just remembered something, but then, it was gone again. And the more he tried to remember what it was that he'd remembered, the further away it slipped. And then, soon, he couldn't even remember the words that had been stuck in his head. Greg sighed and turned his head to look out of the window. A tree with blossoms on it was casting sunlit shadows inside. Greg sighed, wondering why he could never sleep at night, and was always the most exhausted in the daytime. At least Nick shared his odd sleep schedule, more or less. Except these days, he couldn't sleep at any time for long. It was as if his body had decided that it had had quite enough of unconsciousness for a while and would rather stay awake for three months straight to make up for lost time. Unfortunately, however, that didn't stop his body from aching and groaning with fatigue, or his eyes from growing strained.

"I guess sleep is hard to come by for the walking dead," Greg muttered, all the while knowing that if Nick had heard him call himself that, he would have chastised him for it. And it wasn't that Greg wished he _were_ dead, it was more that he felt like a restless spirit doomed to wander the earth for eternity and to stay awake forever. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and, as had become routine when he woke up from his short spurts of sleep, he hobbled out into the vacant living room. He had become fairly familiar with the new daytime television that was on these days. He channel surfed until he fell into a zombie-like trance, where he wasn't quite asleep, but his mind was too far gone to focus on any one thought. He stared at the flickering lights and images, the volume on low so as not to disturb Nick, and eventually, he drifted off somewhere to another place he couldn't remember.

* * *

He awoke to his own voice. He was screaming. He didn't know why. But he didn't stop right away, because as he tried to move, he discovered that he was completely paralyzed. He had fallen onto the floor next to Nick's couch. He heard a door slam, and in a moment, his friend was there, pushing aside the coffee table and crouching beside him. His deep brown eyes were calm, but his brow was etched with concern.

"Sh," the Texan soothed. "Sh, Greg, calm down."

Greg slammed his jaw shut, stifling his own cries and swallowed. He took deep breaths.

"It was just a nightmare, Greg," Nick assured him. "It's not real." There was urgency in his voice, but also confidence. Like he had seen this all before and he knew what to do.

Greg's breathing was deep and rapid. He consciously slowed it. "I don't… I don't even…"

"Don't talk," Nick advised. "I'm going to help you sit up now, OK?"

Greg nodded and closed his eyes as tight as his weak facial muscles would allow before snapping them open again. Nick's hands slid beneath his back and expertly lifted him into a sitting position, maneuvering Greg so that he could lean against the couch.

"How are you doing now?" Nick asked. Greg marveled at the calm in his voice.

"O… OK…" he stammered. "Nick, I don't even… I'm not… why?"

"You had a nightmare," Nick explained. "It's fine. You've had them before."

Greg blinked at him. "What?"

"A lot of the times, you don't wake up," Nick explained. "But I hear you. Gotta say, this is the first time I've found you in the living room, though. I…" He paused, staring down at Greg's legs. He looked up again at Greg's face and smiled, warmly. "Here, let me help you get to the bathroom."

"Why?" Greg blinked at him again, then looked down and cringed. "Oh…"

"It's no big deal," Nick assured him. "A lot of your muscles are weaker after…"

The shame burned in his face as his legs began to register the warm wetness that had spread across them and stained his boxers. He felt like he was six years old. "I'll do it," he insisted.

"Greg…" Nick began.

He grabbed the back of the couch and tried to get to his feet. He managed to get into a sitting position on the couch. He grabbed the arm of the couch and tried to get to his feet, but his elbow buckled and he fell forward, banging his nose on the arm of the couch. The pain on the bridge of his nose was so intense it made his eyes water, and then he felt worse for crying.

Nick reached out a hand to help him, but he swatted it away, furiously. "No!" He sat back on the couch and wiped his tears away with his right hand. He took a deep breath, then realized that the couch cushions sank so deep, he would need Nick's help getting out of them. So he took a deep breath and swallowed his pride, finally meeting Nick's patient eyes.

"Fine…" he said, reaching out his right hand to Nick, who pulled him up and allowed Greg to hold onto his arm as they staggered to the bathroom like a three-legged monster.

"I can do it from here," he insisted. Nick was silent as he let Greg go inside.

"Greg, this isn't the first…" he began through the closed door, then hesitated. "I mean, this isn't surprising. You don't… It's not a big deal, honestly."

Greg leaned against the door and grasped the sink. A fragment of a memory… his first night. Wet sheets, frantically trying to hide them, and Nick… Nick…

"It's happened before," he whispered, then louder, so Nick could hear. "It's happened before."

There was a beat, then, "Yes."

Greg's face burned hotter, but he shook his head in protest and got to work. He used the bars by the toilet to steady him as he stripped off his shirt and boxers, slowly, painfully, but he would be damned if he asked for anyone's help in that. This night was humiliating enough. He limped to the bathtub and ran the hot water.

* * *

"Is he OK?"

Nick looked up to see the timid brunette had left his bedroom. She had gone home with Nick to talk, but upon seeing Greg asleep on the couch, the two had absconded to Nick's bedroom so as not to bother their sleeping friend. Sara had made a joke about never having seen Nick's bed before, and he had tried to go along with it flirtatiously, but it didn't feel right. While he and Sara had often flirted innocently over the years, it had never really meant anything to either of them. Somehow, both of them had managed to make it incredibly clear that their relationship was strictly platonic. But flirting was fun, especially when they were both feeling lonely and unwanted. But lately, Nick had been consumed by looking after Greg. And something had changed with Sara, too. The flirting felt stiffer somehow, less playful and more forced. It had never been serious, but it had turned awkward, and Nick couldn't quite pinpoint why.

"He probably won't even remember in the morning," Nick said. "He'll be OK. You made the right call, though, staying in my room. If he'd have known you were here…"

"I don't want to crowd him," Sara repeated for the fiftieth time that year. "I just… I was wondering how _you_ were doing, taking care of him. That can be pretty stressful in its own right."

"It feels good to be doing something for once," Nick replied.

She waited, and when he didn't continue, she prompted. "But…?"

Nick stared at her, and lied, "But nothing. I'm just glad he's alive."

Her thin lips and dark eyes told him that she wasn't buying it. But instead of pressing the matter, she said, "Let me help you clean up in here, OK?"

Before he could protest, she was off to the kitchen, grabbing Lysol and paper towels. He watched as she strode into the living room, examining the couch cushions and the floor where Greg had fallen, spraying the hardwood and dabbing the cushions. She found the zipper on the covers and stripped them.

"Did I ever tell you about my mother?" she asked.

"I…" Nick frowned. "You were a foster kid. You never talk about your mom."

"I didn't know her for decades, but a few years ago I looked her up," Sara explained as she cleaned. "By then, she had been released due to senility. She had Alzheimer's, and had been remanded to an elderly care center."

"Released…?" Nick asked.

"From prison," Sara said, without further explanation. Nick didn't ask. Sara had respected his privacy earlier, he'd respect hers now. "I went down there. I watched the nursing staff take care of her, tell her stories. I realized they did more for her than I ever had. So I asked if I could stay with her a while and do it myself. She was my responsibility, after all, I should look after her. I didn't last three days. And I cried every night."

The water in the bathroom stopped. Sara looked up at Nick. She'd heard it, too. "I better go," she said, tossing the couch covers into a nearby laundry basket. She took Nick's arm. "Don't be a martyr. Let me know if you want me to look after him for a little while. I'm glad he's alive, too, but I know the toll it takes. Call me."

She left and Nick found himself watching the door. He heard movement from inside the bathroom, and then a crash. He sighed, then knocked.

"You OK in there?"

"Fine!" Greg shouted back, then cursed.

Nick closed his eyes, fought the urge to go in there and help, and prayed for patience.


	6. Reacquainting

**_Author's Note:_** Slow going. No excuse, just lacking motivation. I haven't been writing this for a while, but I'm quite far ahead. A few chapters left before I hit a brick wall. Thanks for your patience.

* * *

Chapter Six: Reacquainting

All eyes were on him as he limped into the lab. He tried not to think about it, even though each pair burned holes like cigarettes into his skin. None of them were people he recognized.

The woman at the front desk offered him a timid, "Hi, Greg."

He looked at her blankly for a minute and blinked. But he couldn't remember her name. "Hey," he said.

"Judy," Nick whispered into his ear.

Greg looked at him, then turned to the woman and smiled. "Judy," he said, as if he'd known her all his life. She beamed at him, clearly flattered that he seemed to remember her, even if he was faking.

Nick led him further into the lab, always touching his good arm gently. On either side of them were legions of windows, behind which lab techs paused in their analyses. Greg saw one, Wendy, punch Hodges hard in the arm to make him look up. Hodges seemed the least interested out of everyone and only gave Greg a short, bored glance before returning to his microscope. Greg saw Wendy hit him again, but he ignored her this time. It made him smile.

"Why is Wendy in Hodges' lab?"

"Who knows," Nick sighed. "I don't get those two at all."

They rounded the corner and Nick led him into what Greg deduced was the break room, if the fridge and coffee maker were any indicators. There was a woman there, eating a bagel as she went over some paperwork at the table.

"Have a seat," Nick said quietly to Greg, helping him do just that on the couch.

The woman looked up at Nick's voice and blinked at Greg a few times. Greg recognized her as Sara, who had visited him several times in the hospital at first, and then had suddenly stopped coming. If what Nick had said was true, it was because she had been waiting for him to come to her.

"Hello, Sara," he said, with a small smile.

The corner of her lips twitched and she nodded appreciatively at the greeting. "Hello, Greg. What are you doing here?"

"Well," Greg began, leaning back on the couch. "Someone told me there was a pretty lady waiting for me here."

"Is that so?" Sara said with the tiniest of smirks.

"I came here for you," Greg said, and in mid-smile, he stopped. There was a flash of déjà vu that he was desperate to place, but whatever it was, he knew it was something important. Because whatever ghost of a smile there had been haunting Sara's gaunt features vanished. She rose to her feet and gathered her paperwork, leaving her bagel abandoned on a paper plate.

"I have to go," she said, hastily, all good humor gone.

Greg desperately tried to grasp at the straws of his memory, trying to figure out what it was he had said, and why it had affected her so much. "Sara, please, stay!"

"Greg…" Nick began, nervously. Greg knew Nick wanted to tell him to let it go, but he couldn't. In the meantime, Sara was hastily making her way to the door.

Greg knew he had to convince her to talk to him. "I know I said something just now. I know it means something. Please."

She froze, her back stiff as she stood in the doorway.

Greg sighed, but he was still tense. He didn't want yet another memory to slip through his fingers. Sara was the key. "I know that you know something. Something about what I said. You wouldn't have responded that way if you didn't."

Excruciatingly slowly, she turned and her eyes fell on Nick, imploringly. He took a deep breath. "I'm going to go tell Grissom you're here," the Texan said. He ducked his head as he past Sara in the doorway. Their eyes locked a moment, and he was gone.

Sara entered the room again, each step tentative, as if she were testing the ground she was walking on. Greg could tell from her every movement that she was a cautious person, probably one who didn't trust easily. He could relate to that.

"Tell me what you know," he pleaded as she took a seat to his left on the couch and stared straight ahead. Her spine was rigid, her hands gripped her knees. She refused to look at him. But then, unexpectedly, she smiled.

"You were barely conscious," she whispered. "In fact, mostly, you weren't. Sofia let me in to see you, before the paramedics moved you into the ambulance. I held your head in my lap, and your eyes fluttered open. You saw me. You _knew_ me, at least, then you did. You tried to speak. Most of it didn't make any sense. You pointed at Stanley Tanner and babbled about a few other things. I hushed you. Squeezed your hand. I knew you were talking shop. Worrying about others. You wanted me to collect evidence. So I told you that I hadn't come there for that…"

"You'd come there for me," Greg whispered. Sandalwood and citrus invaded his nostrils and shocked his system. The words, in her voice, echoed in his head.

"I didn't even think you would ever remember that," Sara whispered. "Even without the amnesia. I didn't even know if you were still conscious when I said it. And I've asked the doctors, why, why you knew who I was then, but not after you woke up. They blamed it on hemorrhaging in the brain when they lost you for a minute on the way to the hospital."

As if she had lifted the veil from his brain, Greg could remember it clearly now. And her voice, her words, just like Brass's words, were something that he could hold onto. And he did. He held them tightly to his chest, and he knew that he would never let them go, he would never forget. He reached his right hand out across his lap and curled his fingers around her palm. Finally, she turned to look at him.

"Thank you," he whispered, meaning it more than he could ever say.

A smile was her reply.

There was a tentative knock at the break room door, and they both looked up to greet whoever it was. Catherine stood there, with Warrick lingering close behind her. Catherine looked concerned, like she felt she was intruding. Greg offered her a broad smile to reassure her.

"I wasn't fair to you," he told her. "Back at the hospital. I'm sorry."

She returned his smile, seeming somewhat reassured. "You were right. And we're just happy to see you up and about again."

"Not out of the rocks yet," Greg said. "Still can't remember. Still talk like an idiot."

"You don't talk like an idiot," Catherine said, clearly choosing not to correct something he'd just said. "And besides, some women find lisps attractive."

Greg scoffed. "A lisp. Is that what we're calling it?"

"You don't sound like you used to," Warrick conceded, stepping into the room past Catherine. "But at least your wits came out of this unscathed."

Greg looked at his colleague a long time. "Warrick," he said, as if just recalling his name. "You don't feel we're all that close."

Warrick's eyebrows shot up. Catherine and Sara offered him curious looks. He turned his head, looking at both of them and seeming embarrassed. "That's… who told you that?"

"Nick."

"I didn't mean it in any bad way," Warrick explained. "Greg, we all care about you. However close we were or weren't, it makes no difference. I was as scared for you as anyone else in this room. Nick and I, we processed your crime scene together. I was at that scene for him as much as for you, but when I found some of your hair, it just…"

This was new information to Greg. "You processed my scene?"

Warrick hesitated, as if he wasn't sure if he had been allowed to release that detail. "Yes. I did."

"What did you find?"

"I heard Hodges filled you in on that," Sara interjected, putting a hand on Greg's bad knee. Greg looked down, noting that she was squeezing it tightly, and without any hesitation. She didn't care that it was skinny and frail, and that made him smile again.

"I didn't ask what happened," he said to her, as kindly as he could manage. "I asked what evidence you found. How did you together piece it?"

"Why do you want to know that?" Warrick asked.

"Apparently, I used to be a crime scene investigator," Greg replied. "I'd like to go back to that someday, but first I have to remember what that means. Would you talk at me about it?"

"The rock," Warrick began, "that Demetrius James used to bash your head in. Your blood and hair were all over it, as were his fingerprints. Paint transfer, on your car. Helped us catch one of the gang members, actually. Shattered glass from your windshield, trace from—" He cut himself off. "Trace from your fingernails helped us catch another gang member. You scratched her up pretty good. Together, we used the two punks that we had to lure out the rest, including the gang leader, a guy calling himself Pig Man. He and Demetrius James were our biggest scores that day. We all celebrated afterward, though it was somewhat bittersweet. By then, doctors had reported you'd slipped into a coma."

"And all of that… all those small, insignature pieces, put together, helped you catch the people that did this to me?" Greg breathed.

"Well, uh… yeah," Warrick said.

"They aren't insignificant," Catherine added. "No detail at a crime scene is ever insignificant."

Greg's eyes actually lit up. "That's fascilating!"

Sara chuckled beside him. "There he is."

Greg blinked and looked at her. "What?"

"The Greg we used to know," she explained. "I knew he was in there somewhere."

This actually made his heart fall a little, because while Sara seemed reassured, Greg wasn't so certain that he was the same Greg she used to know.

"Either way," she said, as if sensing his unease. "I like this new Greg all the same."

"Whoever you are now, no matter who you were before, we still love you, Greg," Catherine agreed.

"Seems like the gang's all here," came Nick's voice from the doorway. Warrick and Catherine turned as Greg and Sara looked up from the couch. The Texan was accompanied by Grissom, who was as inscrutable as ever. Greg wondered if that was new, or if that was the way his old boss had always been. He wished he could remember.

"Brass and Sofia send their regards," he said to Greg. "They're both out working cases right now. Ronnie is out sick today… You can meet her later."

For some reason, Greg felt the urge to stand, like a private in the presence of his general. He struggled to his feet, using the arm of the chair to support him, but was immediately aided by Sara.

"What are you getting up for?" Warrick asked, coming to his other side.

"Gotta salute the chief, don't I?" Greg asked, his voice strained from the effort of standing. He smiled at Grissom and, as Sara clung to his bad arm, raised his right hand and gave the most rigid salute he could muster.

The glint in Grissom's eyes behind his glasses and his partially opened mouth gave away how moved he was by Greg's display. But then, he snapped his mouth shut. "You're not in the army, Greg, and I don't need to be saluted."

"I don't know," Greg confessed. "I got this thought that you deserved it somehow."

"Sit," Grissom demanded. "Stop being ridiculous."

"Keep being ridiculous," Nick encouraged with a wink. "It reminds me of the old days."

"Tell me about it," Greg said as he sat back on the couch. They all looked at him strangely. "No. Really. Tell me about it."

And so, for a good hour, all of them sat with Greg in that break room and relayed stories about what he was like seven years ago, five years ago, a year ago. They told him about his days as a lab technician, his transfer to CSI, how that affected his attitude, even his personality. They told him of days spent rocking out to Marilyn Manson, dancing in headdresses, turbans and other headgear, and making bets with and pulling pranks on his fellow lab technicians. They told him about his final exam, how he had failed and then passed it, how proud of him they'd all been. And for the first time, Greg didn't feel bad about not remembering. He became excited to find that person again, and grow into something more.

"We'll continue this at the diner after shift," Grissom assured Greg, looking at his watch. "Ecklie is lenient, considering the circumstances, but we all have work to do."

All of them rose to leave, each flashing Greg a unique, regretful look, as if they all wished they could stay and tell him stories about himself all night.

Sara squeezed his left knee again. "I have tomorrow night off," she told him. "How about I take you out to your favorite restaurant?"

"I have a favorite restaurant?" Greg breathed.

Sara laughed. And to Greg, it was music.

* * *

Dinner after shift made Greg feel almost at home. They had taken him to the diner near the crime lab and ordered plates of breakfast food while they explained Greg's entire life to him. Greg learned more about them in the stories about himself than anything else. Each of them told a different story that showed a different aspect that they loved. Sofia recalled a time when Greg had been particularly affected by one of his first crime scenes, a burn victim that had survived with horrible wounds. It had rattled him, but Sofia had encouraged him to hold on to his humor. Nick shared the story of when Greg plastered a purple prose newsletter about Nick all across the lab, much to Nick's chagrin. Catherine spoke of a moment when she had said something shockingly suggestive to Greg that had made him so flustered he dropped his evidence and his face turned red. Sara offered stories of her days as Greg's mentor, including one about an exploding toilet. Brass related an instance where he had taken Greg and Nick to the gun range, and how, though he'd talked a big game, Greg's aim was the worst of the three of them.

"I remember that!" Nick exclaimed. "You confessed later it's because you'd never shot one before in your life!"

"Now, when was this?" Greg asked, his pen poised over a notebook. "I'm trying to establish a time line here."

"Hm, what, 2002, 2003?" Nick asked, looking at Brass for confirmation.

"When you were still a lab rat, for sure," Brass agreed with a nod. "Long before you had a gun of your own."

"I remember when we gave you one," Grissom put in. "You asked me if you could use it to shoot at mockingbirds, or if you were only allowed to target blue jays."

"Atticus Finch!" Greg exclaimed, proud of himself for making the connection. " _To Kill A Mockingbird_! I read that book when I was twelve and I've _never_ forgotten it! I was making a joke!"

"Yeah, you did that on occasion," Warrick said with a smirk.

Greg could have stayed at that table, writing down these stories all day, but his colleagues were exhausted. After a few hours, they all apologized as they headed off to bed. Even Nick, who lingered for as long as he could, urged Greg to finish his coffee so they could head home together.

"So this is what we did, huh?" Greg asked, looking around the diner. "After shift, we'd all just come here and… whatever?"

"That's what we'd do," Nick confirmed with a tired smile. "C'mon, Greg. Some of us have work in the evening."

Greg continued to stir his coffee, staring into the swirls of it. "I still don't sleep."

"I'd blame the eight cups of coffee you've swigged since we got here," Nick said.

"Not just tonight," Greg clarified, needlessly. "In general. Sleep's not my want right now."

"You tell your doctor about that?"

Greg scoffed. "Which one? I have, like, fifteen of 'em."

"Dr. Amador," Nick clarified. "She's your main one, right?"

Greg grumbled. "No. We haven't talked about not sleeping."

"Well you should." Nick yawned and slid out of the booth. He nodded at the door. "C'mon, Greggo."

Reluctantly, Greg got to his feet and stared at his half-finished coffee. He left the diner unable to stop himself from feeling like he'd left something behind there, somehow.

* * *

Greg still had dinner plans with Sara the following night, and he looked forward to it all day. He realized how good it felt to get out of Nick's house and join the ranks of the living. She picked him up and took Greg to a hole-in-the-wall Greek restaurant off the strip. Greg couldn't recall a time in his life when he'd ever eaten Greek food before, but Sara assured him that he loved it.

"Is taste change a side effect of being comafied?" Greg asked, after taking a bite of something Sara said was wrapped in grape leaves and then leaving the rest on his plate.

Sara scrunched up her nose. "OK, maybe the grape leaves weren't your thing. But the schwarma, you always loved that."

"If it's so good, why aren't you eating it?"

"I'm a vegetarian," Sara explained.

"Vege…" Greg took a look at the plastic menu on the table. "How can you find _anything_ to eat here? There's even meat in these grape leaves! I think…"

Sara laughed. "I didn't say this was _my_ favorite restaurant. But I do like the salad here. Something about their feta cheese…"

Greg felt a tinge of warmth, thinking about Sara's choice to take him here when there wasn't much for her to eat. "So…" he began, but he was interrupted by Sara's phone.

"So?" Sara prompted as she reached for it.

"Get your phone," Greg encouraged, shaking his head. "I didn't really have anything to say."

She smiled at him before glancing at the name on the display and answering. Her smile slowly faded and her brow knit together. "What do you mean you have to cancel?" Greg strained his ears to hear the voice on the other line but couldn't make it out. And then, Sara's demeanor changed entirely. "I see. Do you need any help?" More chatter on the other end that Greg couldn't hear. Sara nodded. "No, it's not a problem, I'll be right over." She hung up and looked apologetically at Greg.

"Grissom has a scene," she explained, "over in Green Valley. House full of showgirls, all murdered."

"Ouch…" Greg said, unsure of the appropriate response.

"It's a big, messy scene. They need all hands on deck."

"But I thought this was your night off?" Greg began.

Sara sighed as she took her napkin off her lap and placed it on the table. "Yeah, so did I." She made eye contact with the waiter. "Could we get the check, please?"

"Can I come?" Greg asked.

Sara hesitated, then shook her head. "Greg, that's probably not a good idea."

"Please?"

Sara frowned. "Do you remember that story Sofia told yesterday? About the burn victim? You didn't take that so well. It changed you."

"What's your point?" Greg asked.

"A scene like this… I don't think you're ready for it. Not yet."

"It's not like I've never done this before," Greg said. "I just don't remember doing it before. But, I mean, for God's sake, Sara, I was beaten and put in a coma. And if I ever want to get back to the life I had before, I'm going to have to face scenes like this eventually, aren't I?"

Sara's mouth moved to the left side of her face as she considered Greg's words. She caught the waiter's attention again. "Make the schwarma to go, please?"

* * *

Greg had been told to wait in the car. Though he'd protested adamantly, he obeyed and watched the beautiful suburban home from behind the glass of a windshield. Police were swarming all over the property like ants, and the bright yellow of crime scene tape was visible even at this time of night. Greg found the whole dance fascinating as he watched, trying, as usual, to remember something he feared was long gone from him. He fell almost into a trance of waking sleep as he watched the officers do their work. Brass paced back and forth. A couple reporters lingered just beyond the tape, hoping to get a quote. Officers shined flashlights at the house, the sky, the sidewalk, even once directly into Greg's eyes.

And then, there was a scramble of action as several officers swept quickly into the house, followed by a jogging Brass. Greg frowned, trying to guess what was happening. It was several moments later before anything made sense. Brass was escorting Sara out of the house. Even from this distance, Greg could tell that she was shaken. He wondered if the crime scene had gotten to her, like she'd been worried it could get to him. He doubted that even veteran CSIs were immune to such things all of the time. Brass took off his crime scene coat and draped it over Sara's shivering shoulders. They huddled in hushed conversation. Greg's concern and curiosity piqued, he opened the door. It took him a moment to manage to kick his bad leg out of the car, but he did, and seized his cane in the process before making his way across the street. Somehow, somewhere in the space between his car and the sidewalk, he became someone else. His actions became automatic. He ducked under the crime scene tape like it was no big deal and began to make his way toward Sara and Brass. An officer placed his palm on his chest.

"Excuse me, but this is a crime scene,"

"Check the vest," Greg snapped instinctively, "I'm CSI, I'm here to process the scene."

The officer blinked. "What vest, sir?"

Greg looked down. He was wearing a white button-down shirt with blue lattice lines and a pair of jeans. No vest. No badge. No gun. He came back to himself and suddenly wasn't so self-assured.

"I-I'm sorry," he stammered. "I don't know why I said that."

"Can you tell me who you are, sir?" the officer asked, sounding at once both concerned and demanding.

"He's Greg Sanders," came Jim Brass's gruff voice.

The officer turned and looked at the detective, then back to Greg. Slowly, recognition crept into his eyes. "The guy that was…"

"Yeah," Brass interrupted, pushing the officer aside. He looked coldly at Greg. "What are you doing here, Greg?"

"Sara brought me," Greg explained. "I wanted to come." He looked past Brass's shoulder at his friend, who had pulled the jacket tighter around her and stood watching him by the door to the house. "Is she OK?"

Brass followed his gaze. Sara stared stonily at both of them. "She'll survive. There was a victim still alive on the scene. She reached out to Sara from under the bed, scratched her cheek."

Greg's eyebrows shot up. "So there's a survivor?"

Brass's expression was grim. "Not anymore."

Greg's eyebrows fell with his mood. "Oh. Can I talk to her?"

"Sara?" Brass clarified. He stepped out of the way. "Be my guest."

Greg made his way over to his old friend, who had a glimmer in her eyes. It took Greg a minute to place it before he realized it was tears.

"You OK?" he asked, feeling guiltily relieved to be the one asking the question instead of the one hearing it.

Instead of a verbal reply, she simply nodded.

"Brass told me what happened. I can't imagine what that must have been like."

"You have your own nightmares," Sara said, with a sad smile.

"That I do," Greg conceded. "But at least I don't remember mine."

"She died in my arms," Sara said. "Did Brass tell you that?"

"No, he did not," Greg said. "Sara… it's not your fault."

"I know," she said, mustering her stoic expression and using a smile to reinforce it. "And it'll be better when we get the bastard that did this to her and her friends. I have to go back and finish processing the scene. Do you… wanna come?"

Greg was intrigued. "I thought I was regulated to the car?"

"Relegated," Sara corrected, without even flinching. "And you were. But you're here, now. Past the tape. Might as well go all the way."

"I bet the old me would have killed to hear you say that," said Greg with a smirk.

"Yeah," Sara returned. "He would have."

She took him around the house and into the backyard. She dusted for prints on a chair that had been lodged under a doorknob. If Greg had known how to do any of this before, it had all vanished. Sara showed him how to leave a fine coat of dust and how to collect the print ("The particles stick to the oils left behind by the skin."). She made a comment about how there was new technology coming out where all they'd have to do was scan it like a price gun, but Las Vegas had yet to upgrade. In the meantime, she explained, she kept things fun by using different colored print dust. She commented on the type of print, how it was calloused, which was unusual.

As she was explaining the different kinds of print one might find, she paused a moment, then laughed.

"What is it?" Greg asked.

"Nothing," she explained. "It's just… déjà vu, is all. Reminds me of my first day training you."

"For me, this _is_ my first day training under you."

"Yeah," Sara said, with a thoughtful smile. "I guess it is."


End file.
